


SASO '17 BR Fills

by stephanericher



Series: SASO 17 [5]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball, Princess Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bleach Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Porn, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Cannibalism, F/F, F/M, Infidelity, KNBxNBA, M/M, Other, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-12 19:28:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 64
Words: 87,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11168544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: A collection of bonus round fills for SASO, too short to get their own ficfirst two brs only, still not fully tagged





	1. imahana serial killers

**Author's Note:**

> generally these are all the <1000 word fics but there are probably exceptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1; prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10284818#cmt10284818) (hanamiya's a serial killer & imayoshi's a better one)

There are no coincidences, but the first time it happens Hanamiya is willing to blame it on chance. He’s a killer, and he is very careful about his victims—always in good health, always in good standing, always need to be taken down a peg or two (and there’s no better way of ripping out the pegs than ripping up their throat and leaving the blood to stain the pillow.  
  
These people have few public enemies; everyone’s so willing and eager to buy their stupid I’m-so-perfect act and suck up to them. Hanamiya’s not willing to, though, and he’s always the only fucking one—but he will concede that even though people are, in general, horribly stupid and delusional, one of his victims somewhere along the line might have an enemy. After all, there are sayings about broken clocks, and even more than they’re stupid, people are jealous.  
  
Hanamiya’s not mad about his kill being stolen per se, but he could have done a better job. The spattered blood is sloppy; the scene shows signs of a struggle; the body is imperfectly-posed. An amateur to be sure, but at least no one would confuse it for his own handiwork. And if the result has been achieved and there’s less work for him, perhaps that’s a good thing.  
  
The second time, though, is no coincidence. The body is in the same pose, the struggle the same, the slashes across the wrists the same. It’s the same person, and for a moment Hanamiya wonders if this is a setup, if they’ve tracked him here. He takes the back road home, the wrong routes, stopping in stores and ducking through alleys. How could this other person have known? Hanamiya doesn’t make obvious overtures about his next victim; he doesn’t stake them out or visit the location more than once. The pattern of the people he kills is discernible, but there are plenty of upstanding community members who are just as boringly squeaky-clean as they appear. He doesn’t go after them. It’s hard to find evidence that suggests the crimes, secret dalliances outside of their marriages, acceptance of bribes or large sums of money paying others for their silence. How could this other person know?  
  
The third time in a row, Hanamiya nearly screams. Instead, he keeps his voice low, mindful of the time he has left before the security cameras pop back on.  
  
“Who the fuck are you?”  
  
There’s no answer, but he feels as if he’s being watched by someone. He tells himself it’s just paranoia, but it’s hard to hammer it deeply into his head.  
  
He pulls out the nail the fourth time, when he catches the other killer in the act. There’s a person bent over the bed when Hanamiya silently lifts the screen; the person turns around just as Hanamiya climbs in and the low light gleams off his glasses.  
  
“You’re right on time, Makoto-kun.”  
  
Hanamiya swallows—how dare he, whoever the fuck this guy is? How dare he pretend this is all according to some sick plan.  
  
“You think you can kill me, too? Frame me for this?”  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the man says, laughter in his voice (oh, great, one of the weird ones).  
  
“I like your style, Makoto-kun,” the man croons, stepping closer; Blood drips from his knife onto the carpet. “It needs a little bit of work, but you might be on my level someday.”  
  
“Your level? With the way you cut—”  
  
The man waves the knife in the air. “Please. That’s a matter of personal taste. I like it a little rougher, a little less clean. Hurts the family more.”  
  
“Ugh.” (He does not have a point.) “Who the fuck are you, anyway?”  
  
“Oh, I haven’t introduced myself.” (What does he think he is, the star of some shitty detective movie?) “You can call me Shouichi.”  
  
God, that smile is creepy; he holds out his hand for Hanamiya to shake, and Hanamiya reaches out with his own hand, jerking it away at the last minute.  
  
“Kidding, dumbass. I’m not about to get your fingerprints all over me.”  
  
“No? That’s a pity,” says Shouichi. “It’s too bad. You were kind of cute.”  
  
Abilities notwithstanding, Hanamiya considers murdering him right then and there.


	2. momoriko; touou!riko

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10398738#cmt10398738) (au where momoriko are in school together)

“They’re nothing,” says Riko, breath falling from her lips afterward as if to punctuate it.   
  
Satsuki nods, checking her clipboard. She can see Riko looking at her out of the corner of her eye, a slight flush painting her cheeks. Riko can squawk all she wants about being older and wiser; she’s still pretty cute—especially like this, when she’s all fired up and ready to go.  
  
“Kick their asses, boys,” says Riko.  
  
“Your wish is our command,” says Imayoshi.  
  
Riko looks like she might murder him, but Satsuki knows she won’t. Even if she really felt like it, she needs him too much for basketball right now.   
  
The boys get off to a fast break against Seihou, clearly unaffected by their conditioning and technique. Seihou’s not rattled, not yet; Satsuki doesn’t need them to be—but to watch Riko watch them clearly off-balance, her knuckles relaxing on the clipboard and the smirk easy on her face like a well-worn recliner leaning back. Satsuki calls time.  
  
“What are you doing?” says Riko. “It’ll only let them catch their breaths.”  
  
“You’ll see,” says Satsuki.  
  
The plan she outlines is deceptively simple, getting the ball to Wakamatsu in rapid fire and letting him sink a couple of dunks. It’s something they might have run on their own, but never repeated over and over like this, a broken record and a jumping needle, sapping away what remains of the strong Seihou spirit like sitting on an air bed with a hole in it.  
  
Seihou crumples almost immediately, falling back to the Touou onslaught. It’s almost poetic and certainly beautiful, each dunk and block and steal and aggression, teeth sinking into prey. And Riko, on the bench, is practically glowing, face illuminated in the neat frame of her hair, smile on her face, team jacket slipped from her shoulders.   
  
Touou’s win is total and complete. Satsuki notes the point totals, the stats and baskets, on her scorecard, but she can’t say she really remembers because she’s too focused on Riko.  
  
“Hey,” Riko says, afterward, while they wait for the boys to get out of the locker room. “You’re paying attention, right?”  
  
Satsuki hands over the scorecard; Riko frowns at it.  
  
“No errors. As always.” (From Riko, that’s close to a compliment.)  
  
And then, suddenly, Riko’s hand on her shoulder (suddenly Satsuki wishes she wasn’t wearing her hoodie). Riko stands on her toes, fingers brushing through Satsuki’s hair, and pecks her on the lips.  
  
“I think I deserve a little more than that,” says Satsuki.  
  
Riko folds her arms across the chest, as bold as challenge to take it if she wants it as Satsuki’s ever seen. She doesn’t need telling twice.


	3. kagahimu DICE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10288146#cmt10288146) (kagahimu, dice: the game that changes everything)

“You’re back.”  
  
Shit. He’d meant to freeze time and slip back into bed before Taiga woke up, make it like he’d never been gone—not lie per se, just omit the truth, the wear and tear on his body that he can mend and melt away, the things that are, in the scheme of things, inconsequential.  
  
“I’m back,” says Tatsuya.  
  
“Dice quest again?”  
  
Tatsuya nods. Of all the things he’s grateful for regarding Taiga (starting with Taiga being in his life at all, Taiga loving him after everything, Taiga loving him like this) perhaps the biggest and most complex is that Taiga isn’t a Dicer. Taiga doesn’t need it; he’s got so much talent of his own—and even if he hadn’t, there are still things it does to Tatsuya, ways in which it stretches him thin, more things he can’t make up for with more dice.   
  
“Tatsuya,” says Taiga, but then nothing.   
  
Tatsuya sits down on the edge of the bed; Taiga pulls back the covers and pulls him in.

* * *

Tatsuya’s been an A-Rank for a while now. It’s been two years and change since the first time they’d gone to the street court on one of Taiga’s off-night and Tatsuya had expected everything to change. He’d thought, maybe, this would be it; he’d be on equal footing with Taiga; he could compete; he could stop spending all of his nights on dice quests, gathering more, solidifying his power. He’d upped his stamina, amplified his arms again, and Taiga had beaten him soundly.  
  
It’s gotten a little bit better since he’d started; the scores between them have shrunk just a little bit, but not enough—it would only be enough if there was a possibility of a back-and-forth seesaw, true competition. It’s still not close to enough. Every roll is another enhancement, better legs or better endurance, more strength or greater range. Every roll only brings him a millimeter closer, and at this point it seems as if he’d need every last die in the world and it still might not be enough, even with the S-Die.   
  
He is warned that if he pushes much further he’ll break, but that can’t be true, can it? Taiga’s so far past these physical limitations, the way he leaps in the air, the sureness of his dunk or his block. Or maybe it’s just Tatsuya’s shitty body, rotten luck of being born with something that can only be enhanced so much, the fragile frame of a car that crumples when hit head-on instead of a sturdy body that can smash into anything. It’s not fair, but life’s not fair—but aren’t dice supposed to tilt the odds in his favor?

* * *

He’s beginning to crack, beginning to reach his limits; all the power of the dice weighs him down. His jumpers are flat; the scoring gap is worse; his dribbles falter. His game is weak. Taiga sits down next to him on the concrete ridge at the bottom of the fence. His arm worms around Tatsuya’s waist, scratched at by the peeled edges of the fence’s links.  
  
“I don’t like what this does to you.”  
  
“I don’t like not being able to compete with you,” says Tatsuya.  
  
(It’s not the point; he doesn’t like what this does to him either, but somewhere down the line it’s going to be worth it, maybe, hopefully.)  
  
“Tatsuya—you know I don’t think any less of you. Because of all this.”  
  
Were Tatsuya younger, he might have made some sort of remark to clarify that all this means him not being that good, but it would hurt them both too much to say (he still runs the edge over the tip of his tongue). And it’s not even really the point; the point is that it might never change, that dice and moved goalposts and all, this is all he’s ever going to be, and this, as he is, can’t be enough.  
  
Taiga raises Tatsuya’s palm to his lips and kisses the heel of his hand, meets his eyes.  
  
“Please, Tatsuya. Don’t keep fucking with your body. I—basketball—it’s. I don’t care about basketball, however good either of us is—all I want is you.”  
  
Tatsuya’s rolled himself enough clairvoyance that he could verify this as true, but he’s never needed to dip into that with Taiga. Hearing this, though, is pure and clear like a siren in the middle of the night; Tatsuya almost can’t process it.   
  
“Please,” Taiga says again, his voice breaking like a dead radio. “Stay here.”


	4. kagahimu shinigami/quincy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1; original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10482194#cmt10482194) (quincy archer hates you)

If they spend a thousand years together, Taiga will never get tired of the sight of the barrage of arrows off Tatsuya’s bow, the sound of them piercing the air, the way they seem to fall as the hollow takes a shaky step back, but then land, forming the pattern of the cross on the hollow’s back long enough to sear the image across Taiga’s mind before everything dissipates.  
  
“Behind you!”  
  
Taiga’s lost focus, draws his sword a hair too late; the voice of its spirit hisses in the back of his mind and Taiga knows. He needs to be more attentive to the situation when there are hollows around; he’s been told again and again but there’s just something about watching Tatsuya. He’s seen it a million times, but each time is special; each time is worth his full attention, much more than any hollow. He slices it across, through the hole in its chest; another rises behind it and Taiga cuts again. This is a nasty pack, as if someone in this town is baiting them—even his and Tatsuya’s combined reiatsu can’t be enough of a draw.  
  
“There’s something else at play here,” says Tatsuya, shooting another volley of arrows across, taking out a few smaller hollows at once.  
  
“Yeah,” says Taiga. “I don’t know what.”  
  
The line of Tatsuya’s jaw is set; he’s tired—his physical body wears down far too quickly, one of the few things Taiga barely misses about staying in the world of the living.   
  
“I got this,” says Taiga, as a larger hollow (close to menos-level in size and spiritual pressure but not quite there, still formidable) stumbles toward them.   
  
He shouts the incantation of a binding kido and slashes, nearly there; the hollow roars. He might have to release; the voice of his zanpakutou sounds its approval in his mind (she is always eager to the draw, always wants to end things quickly and decisively in their favor, regardless of the energy it takes). He reaches out again to cut; the hollow meets him, lets him stab across its front, and fuck—is it too late to release? Its jaws leer closer; Taiga darts out of the way. The hollow roars again, but this time it falls forward and vanishes. Standing on the other side is Tatsuya, pale hands lowering his bow and doing their damn best not to shake.  
  
“Thanks,” Taiga says.  
  
“Anytime,” says Tatsuya.  
  
He falls asleep as soon as they get home, and he’s tired enough to let Taiga carry him from the couch to the bed, barely waking up and keeping his grip around Taiga’s shoulders tight enough that Taiga decides it might be better to just stay here and fall asleep with him. He thinks about objections about potential Quincy colleagues that his captain has made very clear (and the words Taiga has had to bite back about his Quincy family), the look in Tatsuya’s eyes when he’d found out Taiga was a Shinigami, like he’d expected Taiga to execute him on the spot. He thinks about how he can never let that happen again, quelling the rage and sadness that always builds in his stomach when he thinks of it. As long as he is stationed here, he won’t let anything happen to Tatsuya.  
  
Tatsuya snuggles closer, a smile on his face, his hair already pushed away from his forehead. Taiga hopes, to whatever higher powers there may be—the Soul King, or even beyond that—that Tatsuya’s having the sweetest dreams.


	5. momoriko air coinditioner repair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1; prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10544914#cmt10544914) (my a/c broke & the repair person is hot)

Fuck, it’s hot. Riko’s dragged out all of the fans and opened all of the windows as wide as they’ll go; she’s lying on the floor naked with a cool glass of ice water in her hands and it still feels like she’s been imprisoned in a coffin of sweat with no way out, the bottom of a lukewarm swimming pool. She’d called the super last night, right after her a/c had gone out, and he’d promised to send someone over first thing in the morning. Riko knows she’s impatient, but it’s quarter after nine already and she’s not sure she’d count it as first thing anymore.  
  
A knock sounds on her door. “Air conditioning!”  
  
“Coming!”  
  
Fucking finally. Riko throws on a sweaty tank top and stained gym shorts and her glasses, gross but the best thing she has on hand. She’s not here to look hot for some old overly-buff lady or whoever it is they’ve sent, just to watch and make sure the place gets down to a livable temperature. Of course, Riko regrets the thought right away when she opens the door.  
  
Air conditioner mechanics aren’t even this hot in shitty pornos. This woman’s got the toolbox, stamped with the name and address of a local company, and she’s got the requisite t-shirt with the sleeves pulled off and cargo pants, but this isn’t some buff old lady or a clueless high-schooler. She looks to be around Riko’s age, with long pink hair scraped away from her face and big eyes framed by gorgeous lashes. God, Riko should have put in her contacts or at least tried to look less sloppy; her frame looks shapeless and too-thin in clothes like this and the mechanic—well. It would be impossible to hide her winding curves and long legs under anything.   
  
“Uh, come in,” says Riko, attempting not to think about how long she’d stood there staring.  
  
“You’re Aida-san, right?”  
  
“Right,” says Riko, willing herself not to stare at the mechanic’s ass when she turns around.  
  
“I’m Momoi. It’s just the one unit?”  
  
“Yeah,” says Riko (not that there’s room for much more in her pitiful studio—it’s relatively clean, but there’s so much clutter and she’d left a half-dozen open video game cases next to the TV).   
  
“Okay. The request said it stopped working last night. Any trouble before then?”  
  
“Nope. It was fine, reliable. I woke up and I was really sweaty and it had gone off and I couldn’t get it to come back on. It kina hummed for a bit the second time, but nothing happened.”  
  
“Hmm,” says Momoi. “Could be a lot of things. I’ll have to open it up and see.”  
  
Momoi’s a chatty worker, tinkering around inside with her tools but still more than holding up her end of the conversation, letting Riko have a chance to say all she wants. She’s watched some pro competitions of the same games Riko plays, and they talk about strategy until the subject abruptly switches to basketball, which seems to be Momoi’s true passion. She voices excitement for players, moves, strategies, things Riko’s barely thought about, and her enthusiasm is almost palpable and very, very cute. Fuck, it’s too hot for Riko to be having these kinds of thoughts.  
  
Momoi finishes in less than an hour; it feels like too soon and still forever, long enough that Riko knows her already.   
  
“We’ll send you the bill in a week or so,” says Momoi. “You can pay online, by mail, or come into our office.”  
  
“When will you be there?”  
  
The question forces its way out of Riko’s mouth, and Momoi doesn’t look too surprised (not that Riko was being anything short of the most obvious from the get-go).  
  
“Call ahead,” says Momoi. “My shifts usually end at two in the afternoon. And, here.”  
  
She hands over her card to Riko.   
  
“You can call me directly, in case you have any other problems.”  
  
Riko swallows. “Sure. Thanks.”  
  
“Anytime,” says Momoi with a wink.


	6. aokuro, kiridai!kuroko

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=9930770#cmt9930770) (kuridai!kuroko meeting aomine on the court again)

They don’t talk about basketball anymore, but it’s getting hard not to. They can’t lie and say it’s all in the past, because it’s not. Aomine still doesn’t receive anyone’s passes the way he used to receive Kuroko’s, and for Kuroko it’s a little bit of an unspoken point of pride. Kuroko passes still, yes, but it’s into the spider’s web, different and better than that amateur middle-school stuff they’d done. Sometimes, his thoughts linger on an Aomine here at Kirisaki Daiichi, elevating their game further, becoming truly the best—but here there is no room for a light like him; there is no room for too much contrast. Even Seto, whose game exists solely to elevate Hanamiya’s, is just a darker shade of Hanamiya’s ink.

Of course, he has never tried to explain all of this to Aomine. He hadn’t explained it last year after Kirisaki Daiichi had won the final league, crushed Shutoku like the annoyance it was and that young Seirin forward, brash and rough with all the light of a young star—he will never evolve now, perhaps settle into some state like that of a brown dwarf. Perhaps it is better that way, to be cut off before one gets and gets and keeps getting.

Kirisaki Daiichi had lost, but they had taken out Touou’s whiny little shooting guard, who trails after Aomine like a lost child. That had been it, an eye for an eye, a blow to take him out and match those words that had stung that day in the rain, the tears Ogiwara had shed. They had gotten past that; Aomine had kissed him, the way Kuroko had wanted him to for so long.

They are past it, in some ways, now, in the most illusory way. They don’t talk about it, but they go on dates, shopping and eating out, hooking up afterward; Kuroko knows how to do and undo the tie on Aomine’s school uniform and Aomine’s fingers handle the buttons on Kuroko’s school shirt. They both skip practice for this; this is better and this is more important than basketball, trying the same thing over and over again.

They are past it, or they act like they are, until they can’t anymore and the interhigh matches are all set up and the first-round match is Touou against Kirisaki Daiichi.

“Us again, huh, Tetsu?” says Aomine.

Kuroko nods.

They don’t say anything until they’re on the court again. Hanamiya has told Kuroko that his attachments had better not make him hesitate, a veiled threat that says what he must do without mincing words. Kuroko knows; he’s taken out bigger players before, darted in from outside their field of vision and made them trip.

The first time is a near-miss; Kuroko turns away from Aomine’s eyes.

“What the fuck are you doing, Tetsu?”

“He’s throwing you off! Ignore him!” Touou’s captain shouts.

“You don’t mean it,” Hanamiya whispers into Kuroko’s ear. “Show me you do.”

And, isn’t this what he’d wanted? To be important, to play a vital role, what he had been promised at Teikou before it had been snatched away? The villain is essential; even from the shadows the villain gets a spotlight. Touou’s guard passes the ball inbound, and Kuroko strikes. Aomine never sees him coming, tumbling over, elbow-first, legs twisting as they try to strike the floor solidly but kick into the air instead.

His face twists as he falls, ranging over several degrees of shock until his elbow strikes the floor and the crack of his bones echoes off the far ceiling.

“This is Kirisaki Daiichi’s basketball,” says Kuroko.

And they have won.

 


	7. aokuro, kuroko eats lightbulbs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10815250#cmt10815250) (aokuro, aomine feeds kuroko lightbulbs)

“Hey, Tetsu, c’mere.”  
  
Tetsu eyes him warily, almost like a cat (a comparison he’d probably resent, and which Daiki has enough sense to keep to himself for now). Daiki fishes into his pocket and pulls out the flashlight on his keychain, unscrews the top. The bulb had gone out that morning, flickering and dying as he was hunting around under his desk at work for a dropped ten-yen coin. Tetsu walks over the couch and sits down, waiting, lips slightly parted.  
  
Daiki unscrews the tiny bulb (Tetsu-sized, now that he thinks about it, even more than the low-watt compact fluorescents he sucks on until they melt away under his tongue like malformed candy canes), places it between Tetsu’s dry lips. Tetsu swallows it, obedient, not the way he had when Daiki had first discovered he could do this. Back then, he’d been even warier, as if he’d been afraid this kind of party trick was the only thing Daiki liked about him or that he’d been simply curious and he’d have his fill and leave. (That was never true; Tetsu knows this now but Daiki still reminds him, just so he doesn’t forget.)  
  
“Thank you,” says Tetsu.   
  
There’s a soft glow about him, one he doesn’t believe is there, but that’s probably because he’s so used to looking at himself, maybe or maybe-not a result of the light he swallows, maybe or maybe-not a different symptom of the root cause. It doesn’t make him stand out, but when you look at it you see it, like the glow-in-the-dark stars Daiki used to stick to his ceiling as a kid. Daiki reaches over, unscrewing the bulb from the lamp. It’s still got power left, but they have an overhead, and he can tell when Tetsu’s hungry. He holds it out and Tetsu moves closer on the couch, close enough for Daiki’s other hand to come to rest in his hair, brush the bangs off his forehead.  
  
Daiki closes his eyes at the soft sound of Tetsu’s lips and tongue, sucking on the end of the lightbulb. It would be easy to say there’s something sexual about it, but there really isn’t. It’s somewhat similar, hitting Daiki on some kind of base level, but a while different part of him. Tetsu slurps gently at the edges, the heat of his lips brushing across Daiki’s fingertips. Tetsu’s knee nudges him, and Daiki lets go, opening his eyes to watch the base of the bulb disappear into Tetsu’s mouth.   
  
“Still hungry?” Daiki says, voice soft as he leans in.  
  
Tetsu looks up at him, unblinking, before he bridges the gap between their mouths.  
  
“I’m alright,” he says, just before their lips touch.


	8. aohimu infidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1; prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10821138#cmt10821138) (tatsuya sleeps with taiga's bf)

Aside from the obvious, Tatsuya can see exactly what Taiga likes about Aomine. He’s hot as sin—talks too much and doesn’t make sense half the time, but that doesn’t really matter when his legs don’t quit and every time he lifts up the bottom of his shirt to wipe his face those well-toned abs are visible. That, he does on purpose, but if crunches ever did what they were supposed to for Tatsuya he’d be doing it, too.   
  
So Tatsuya doesn’t make his attraction and approval much of a secret. Why should he? There’s a lot that Taiga can have but he can’t, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to try and grab his share of everything he can. And he’s not basketball (maybe this would make him feel worse about that, as if he needs an excuse) but Aomine is certainly something.   
  
It takes two weeks to get Aomine into his bed, all in all not too bad, though nowhere near Tatsuya’s top time. He’s well worth the wait, though, skin smooth under Tatsuya’s touch and face responsive, eyes closing and mouth pursing. His back arches when Tatsuya touches him a certain way; he does it again and God. He can see even more why Taiga puts up with his quirks and annoying habits, if it means he gets this in front of him every night.   
  
“Taiga has good taste,” Tatsuya murmurs.  
  
It’s the wrong thing to say; Aomine pulls away and frowns, eyes scanning over Tatsuya’s face. “Is this about him?”  
  
“No,” says Tatsuya, leaning over to kiss Aomine, soften the lie enough to get him to swallow it. “I was just remarking. You’re wonderful.”  
  
“Talk about me more,” says Aomine.  
  
Tatsuya obliges, painting pictures of words and platitudes, touching his fingers to just the right places, until he’s sure Taiga’s all but gone from Aomine’s mind. He doesn’t want Aomine thinking about Taiga, talking about Taiga, at all—but maybe, the next time Aomine sleeps in Taiga’s bed, he’ll think about Tatsuya, about this. Tatsuya’s not so foolishly narcissistic to hope Aomine calls his name; he doesn’t want Taiga to know (it would break him). He wants to have Aomine, even when Taiga does, his fingerprints invisible to the light frequencies Taiga can see. If he can’t have basketball, if he can’t have Taiga—this is not enough, not even close, but it’s the best he can hope for.


	9. aoaka high school au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11048619#cmt11048619) (aoaka meet in high school)

Aomine Daiki sits beside him in the second row. Akashi would know this, of course, but anyone would notice when Aomine walks in ten minutes late on the first day, shirt and tie done improperly. He’s one of those types (also tall and lean and too attractive to dress this badly, but that’s irrelevant and Akashi files that away in the back of the drawer) and he’d better not try to cheat off Akashi on a test.  
  
The first time Aomine really looks at Akashi, he’s already flipped through his porn magazine twice and stuffed it back into his suspiciously-empty schoolbag. He glances around, eyes settling on Akashi’s shogi board.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“Shogi,” says Akashi.  
  
(If he moves there, he’s in check; he’d set the trap himself but now he’s the one who has to get out from under it.)  
  
“By yourself?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Aomine does not ask how the game is played or if he can join in, just leans over on his elbows and watches for a bit. His gaze isn’t too intense or distracting (as if anything could be), and there’s actually something about it that’s the opposite of off-putting. Akashi plays until the end of the lunch period; the next time he looks back at Aomine, Aomine’s asleep again. Typical.  
  
After that, Aomine starts talking to Akashi more—as if they’re acquaintances, associates, something of the sort. It’s a little weird that out of everyone in their class Aomine’s chosen him. If he’s always looking at pictures of women with large breasts, shouldn’t he want to talk to Asano? What about Shinjo, who’s even more of a delinquent than Aomine is? Is he trying to butter Akashi up to help his woeful grades?  
  
“What else do you like besides Shogi?” says Aomine.  
  
He’s chewing gum, loud and annoying, as if in imitation of an obnoxious professional baseball player.  
  
“I play the violin,” says Akashi. “I read.”  
  
“I like reading too,” says Aomine.   
  
“Gravure magazines?” says Akashi, before he can stop himself.  
  
Aomine rolls his eyes. “Well, yeah. But I read real books.”  
  
Akashi looks at him closely—Aomine doesn’t seem like the light novel type, and definitely not the kind of person who reads literary fiction.  
  
“Poetry,” says Aomine.   
  
“I prefer prose,” says Akashi.  
  
Aomine shrugs. “Well, if you want a rec, let me know.”  
  
Akashi considers it—he’s not a fan of poetry; he likes literature (classical, new, translated from other languages) and that’s always been enough for him. Poetry tends to be too whimsical, even more so than the most surreal or fantastical of novels. He’s still considering it that night when he eats dinner with his father, quietly as usual.   
  
Aomine doesn’t show up for class the next day, but Akashi knows where to find him. As he climbs the stairs to the roof at lunch, he wonders why exactly he’s doing this. Why should he be the one going after Aomine? Shouldn’t he wait for Aomine to come to him? Why is this contact even important in the first place?   
  
Aomine’s eyes are closed but he’s not asleep. Akashi sits beside him.  
  
“You held out pretty long,” says Aomine.  
  
Akashi nearly has to bite his tongue. Aomine can pretend he’s the one pulling the strings all along, but Akashi coming here has nothing to do with how much Aomine wants it (okay, maybe it does, but only a little). Aomine pushes himself into a sitting position; the top two buttons of his shirt are undone and Akashi suddenly feels indecent, as if he’s the one overexposed. His face grows hot and he looks away.  
  
“Hey,” says Aomine, voice softer than Akashi knew he was capable of.   
  
Oh.  
  
Akashi leans in to kiss him, a quick press of his closed lips to Aomine’s, and then pulls away.   
  
“You’re not going to give me a real kiss?” says Aomine.  
  
Akashi snorts. If Aomine’s going to be so entitled and demanding—well, Akashi can work with that. He’ll make Aomine work for what he wants.  
  
“Tell me about your favorite poetry first,” says Akashi.


	10. aokaga werewolf/vampire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11004587#cmt11004587)

Daiki always gets antsy right before the full moon, his body aware of the shifting tides even when the moon is facing the other side of the earth, how near it is that the moon will appear large and golden and perfectly round, how the one night when they can both see perfectly well out of doors Daiki’s transformed into a massive hairy thing with snapping titanium jaws and muscles that could hurl Taiga into the next century.  
  
Not that it makes much of a difference, really. As things are, they are immune to another’s transformative venom, some higher power (if Taiga believed in such things) willing to go only so far, be only so cruel, stop them from suffering combined cruelties. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt when Daiki sinks his teeth into Taiga’s arm, only that he heals the same way he would if it had been an ordinary wolf, quickly under the moonlight. It doesn’t mean Taiga doesn’t have to be careful not to suck Daiki dry in the daylight with the curtains drawn, when he’s feeling weak and his hands are shaking and Daiki has to hold him tight. But it means that like this, under the full moon, they can run together at their true speed; Taiga can jump to the heights his powers grant him but he doesn’t dare attempt to reach and Daiki can leap up in the air to nip at his heels.  
  
He says he doesn’t remember much in the mornings after, and Taiga can’t press him for that. He’s always weak, exhausted; the powers go away but they don’t take the pain of overexertion, strains and bruises and tiredness. Taiga keeps the shades closed and sleeps with him until it’s all over, until he’s the weak one because like this he can’t drink Daiki’s blood (it would be too easy to go about it wrong; Daiki needs every last drop in his body). But there’s definitely some of Daiki, conscious or not, in the wolf, the way it lopes along and, as the moon sinks lower in the sky, nuzzles Taiga’s leg. There’s some wolf in Daiki, too, the grin on his face when he’s goading Taiga into something, the flash of teeth when he moves closer and the mattress shifts underneath him, the way he sleeps under the new moon, sprawled out and snoring.  
  
Life like this, for both of them, is unsustainable. The strain of transformation will age Daiki quicker than a normal human; the winds of time will fail to chip away at Taiga’s body and he’ll be left behind once more, to solitude. Daiki shifts on the bare mattress beside him, as if he smells Taiga’s thoughts, and Taiga smooths a hand over his forehead. It’s not ideal, but for the best they can do it’s pretty good.


	11. murahimu pregame blow jobs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10926610#cmt10926610) (tatsuya gives mura bjs before every game to improve his performance)

Liu was okay; Okamura’s mouth was good but looking at his face was a boner-killer; really, Himuro doesn’t have much of a bar to clear for Murasakibara to be satisfied. Except—like that annoying way he plays basketball, that Murasakibara’s already so fed up with before they’ve even played a real game—he seems intent on leaving everyone else behind.   
  
He’s pretty, sure, but he’s got to know the way his mouth looks, lowered eyelid and hollow cheeks and puffy lips around Murasakibara’s cock—and he takes it in like a fucking champion, like he’s long since learned how to suppress his gag reflex. His tongue is soft and subtle, running over the length of Murasakibara’s shaft, and God, Murasakibara hasn’t come this quickly since he was thirteen. He doesn’t even warn Himuro, but Himuro always takes it, swallows everything before letting Murasakibara’s cock slide slowly out of his mouth, lingering on it when it’s at its most sensitive. He wonders if, maybe, this does something for Himuro, but his face is always the same, cheeks a little rosy and lips swollen but otherwise unruffled.   
  
“You did good, Atsushi,” he says, the way he always does.  
  
Murasakibara wonders, the way he always does, if it shouldn’t be the other way around, not that it’s something he’d tell Himuro but Himuro’s the one doing all of the work.   
  
Murasakibara comes even faster the next time, before he feels like he’s even gotten properly in the mood. He glares at Himuro as Himuro wipes off his mouth, and Himuro looks back up at him.   
  
“That’s not enough. More,” says Murasakibara.  
  
Himuro looks back at him, carefully. Murasakibara knows they only do this so he plays better, so the team does better; he knows how overinvested Himuro is in the team, and even if Himuro thinks he’s lying he might just take the chance, if only to prove that he can still satisfy Murasakibara.   
  
He pulls Himuro down onto his lap and kisses him, rough and hard, licking the taste of his own come out from the inside of his mouth. His hand fumbles with the elastic waist of Himuro’s warmup pants, plunges beneath to feel the curve of Himuro’s ass, firm but with plenty of give under his touch. Himuro makes a sound against Murasakibara’s mouth, quiet but it says enough. It says he wants, and, well. Murasakibara’s no patron of generosity, but hearing that kind of appreciative sound is good. It’s the same kind of good as getting an extra maiubo crammed into one package, but closer to looking at Himuro’s long lashes while he sucks him off. Himuro, wanting, but not the way he usually does, is pleasing, delicious, candy on Murasakibara’s tongue. His body agrees; his mouth waters and his cock feels hot and tight all over again, and oh yes. He wants more.


	12. akamido shogi au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=10948011#cmt10948011) (they play shogi instead of basketball)

Midorima is so elegant and he doesn’t even know it yet, slim fingers dancing over the shogi board, eyes sharply in focus behind his glasses, uniform pressed perfectly over his body, mouth pressed into a thin line as he looks over the board, analyzing each possible outcome. He is careful, perhaps overly so, but it works in his favor; his opponent loses patience and what focus they have left they direct at Midorima in anger. Midorima doesn’t care, mind occupied to overflow with tiles and checks and traps, and Midorima always wins.  
  
Unless his opponent is Akashi.  
  
Sometimes Akashi thinks he’s lucky, to have such strong competition in his own shogi club, someone who will play with him and go nearly toe-to-toe, someone like Midorima who loses without concession, who knows he cannot win but shows up to try the next day, strategy slightly tweaked, resolve bolstered. If Akashi only had the rest of the club members, then there would really be no point in showing up and destroying them day after day. On the other hand, shogi competitions with other schools are invariably boring. Akashi wipes the floor with whoever gets picked to face him; Midorima destroys his opponents in that elegant, methodical way, and Teikou wins. Not that there’s anything boring about winning, but Akashi lets himself wonder about the possibility of seeing Midorima for the first time again, across the table, of rediscovering that there is someone in the middle school circuit who is a worthy, if still distant, second to him. Of showing up to every competition and knowing Midorima will be at the end of the other bracket.  
  
But then he wouldn’t know Midorima, even though that’s beside the point. There is no use getting caught up with what could have been, only what is and what might be (Akashi knows that all too well). And as things stand, he and Midorima are in the shogi club together, and he knows Midorima, all the little quirks and eccentricities, the way he always likes to arrange the tiles and pack them up, his obsession with horoscopes, how seeing other people use flaps on a book jacket to mark their pages makes him sneer, how elegant and enticing he has become, at the start of their third year, baby fat gone from his cheeks, tall and broad-shouldered.   
  
“We should go to different high schools,” Akashi says. “Play each other in competitions.”  
  
Midorima hesitates, a fraction of a second, and then nods (because Midorima, like everyone else, will always say yes, and Akashi, sometimes, almost wants him to say no). He casts his eyes down at the board, at Akashi’s checkmate, gathering the scene in his mind. Akashi lets him study it, studies him studying it, the set of his shoulders and the bend of his hand as his fingers flutter in conjunction with his mind. Elegant, sharp, the point at the top of the tile. Akashi leans over and waits for Midorima to notice.  
  
It takes a while, but Midorima looks up, color flooding his face, the same red as the lettering on the tile nearest his fingertips. His eyes falter; Akashi leans the rest of the way over and kisses him.   
  
“I,” says Midorima, and stops himself.  
  
“That was a good game,” says Akashi.  
  
“I—yes,” says Midorima, fingers clenched on the edge of the table. “It was.”


	13. shutoku, lock of hair from a virgin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11045803#cmt11045803) (midorima needs a lock of hair from a virgin so he asks his teammates)

By the time Oha-Asa reaches Cancer, ranked seventh today, Midorima’s sister is already out the door, headed to school for an early club meeting. It normally wouldn’t bother him, but today’s lucky item for Cancers is a lock of hair from a virgin and, well. Midorima’s pretty sure his sister hasn’t slept with anyone (she’s too young—yes, he’s only a year older, but he wasn’t even thinking about having sex when he was her age). He’ll just have to get it later; it’s about time for Takao to pick him up.  
  
“Where’s the lucky item?” says Takao. “Are you a nonbeliever now?”  
  
“Please,” says Midorima. “Today’s lucky item is a lock of hair from a virgin.”  
  
“Where is it?” says Takao.  
  
“I don’t have it yet,” says Midorima.   
  
“Oh,” says Takao. “Don’t want to cut your hair?”  
  
“For your information, I’ve slept with someone on multiple occasions,” says Midorima, and he can feel his face heating up—this is such an awkward conversation to have with Takao, of all people.  
  
“Aww, Shin-chan, you’re growing up! Who is it, though?” says Takao.   
  
“That’s none of your business!”  
  
“Fair enough,” says Takao.   
  
The rest of the ride passes in silence, and despite Cancer’s relatively low rank nothing bad happens. They manage to get stuck in traffic for a while, but they still make it to school in time for morning practice. There ought to be someone at Shutoku who’s still a virgin—Kimura’s out, since he doesn’t have enough hair, but among the rest there ought to be someone.   
  
“Miyaji-san is probably still a virgin.”  
  
“I think you should ask him,” says Takao.   
  
Midorima’s not quite sure if Takao is making fun of him or not, but it doesn’t matter. He has ample time to ask while they’re stretching; Miyaji and Takao usually pair off but Takao motions Midorima to join their little group.  
  
“Miyaji-san,” says Midorima. “Are you a virgin?”  
  
Miyaji stares at him for a full second before he opens his mouth, and Midorima decides this might not have been the best way of going about that.  
  
“What the fuck kind of question is that to ask an upperclassman? Are you seriously equating me with those fucking mouth-breathing otaku who can’t get a date? Just because I love Miyu-Miyu doesn’t mean I can’t have a healthy real-life relationship with a real person! And believe it or not, I’m in one!”  
  
Midorima blinks.  
  
“You still haven’t answered the question,” says Takao.  
  
“You know the answer, Brat,” says Miyaji, and he reaches over to smack Takao gently and—wait.   
  
“Does that mean…?”  
  
“Exactly what you think it does,” says Miyaji.  
  
“I thought Takao had better taste,” says Midorima.  
  
“I’ll fucking run you over! Takao has terrible taste in friends is what he has!”  
  
Miyaji’s brother, who’s strolled over in the meantime, nudges Midorima. “Did you have to set him off so early?”  
  
“I need a lock of hair from a virgin; it’s Cancer’s lucky item,” says Midorima. “By any chance, are you—”  
  
“You can’t fucking have my hair.”  
  
“I need it.”  
  
Miyaji’s brother is edging away. Midorima sighs. He’s running out of candidates; he’s got some cash on him and maybe that would make him more amenable.   
  
“Why don’t you just ask Captain?” says Takao.   
  
“Captain?” Midorima echoes.  
  
He’d gone through a mental list of candidates; Ootsubo had been tossed out at first simply because he’s the least likely to be a virgin out of anyone. He gets piles of chocolates on Valentine’s day; he’s tall, strong, handsome, sensitive, smart, calm, and if Midorima weren’t already in a relationship—well.   
  
“Yeah. Call in your selfish requests or whatever,” says Takao.  
  
“Hasn’t he used them up already?” says Miyaji.   
  
Midorima ignores him. Ootsubo is across the court, flipping through the papers on his clipboard. Now is as good of a time to approach him as any.   
  
“Captain.”  
  
“Midorima, hey,” says Ootsubo.   
  
“I’d like to use a selfish request,” says Midorima.  
  
“Okay…”  
  
“Are you a virgin?”  
  
Ootsubo looks at him. “What?”  
  
“Are you—”  
  
“I heard you,” says Ootsubo. “Why do you need—is this some horoscope thing?”  
  
“Yes,” says Midorima.  
  
“Yes, I am,” says Ootsubo.  
  
“Can I have a lock of your hair?”  
  
Ootsubo takes a deep breath. “That’s selfish request number two.”  
  
“I know,” says Midorima. “A lock of hair from a virgin is my lucky item.”  
  
“Fine,” says Ootsubo. “Get me a pair of scissors.”


	14. kagahimu, tatsuya is a camboy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10927122#cmt10927122)

Taiga’s go-to porn videos just aren’t doing it for him anymore. The stars are hot, sure, but he knows exactly what they’re going to do and it’s harder to get off. The only reason he’s watching porn in the first place is to get off easy, and the thought of having to search for a new option is not good. He scrolls through to the related videos and ads at the bottom, “Slutty Redhead WOW” and “Interracial Gay Good Time 28” and “Public Teen Boy Take 3 Dicks At Once”. None of those is going to do it for him, and he’s not interested in ads or chatbots. But at the side, near the category chooser, is an ad, a picture of a very attractive guy about Taiga’s age.   
  
He’s leaning into the camera; his hair hangs over one eye but the other is gorgeous, framed in long lashes. His lips are pouting; he’s leaning forward but Taiga can see he’s decently-muscled, toned and lean and probably firm to the touch.  
  
The caption reads, “DRAGON: asian camboy CLICK HERE” and Taiga doesn’t need to be told twice.   
  
The site is behind a paywall, but it promises that it’s live right now, and Taiga’s got more than enough cash to spare so even if this is all a scam (and it does seem a little too good to be true, but only in terms of timely coincidences that he’s pretty sure computers aren’t smart enough to exploit yet) he can pull out really quickly or just let them have a few bucks.  
  
Taiga enters the card information, leaning back against the headboard and waiting for the feed to load. He pops the cap on the bottle of lotion on his nightstand, but he doesn’t have long to wait. Dragon is sitting backward on a folding chair, legs spread, fingers brushing over his crotch. He’s wearing yellow booty shorts (and only yellow booty shorts), and Taiga really wants to see his ass. He bets it’s firm and round, the product of whatever athletic training he does. God, Dragon’s gorgeous; his head lolls to the side as he starts to use the friction between his cock and the fabric and Taiga reaches into his pants. This is already feeling like the best investment ever.  
  
Dragon starts to make little whining noises, playing it up; Taiga pours the lotion onto his right hand and pulls his pants and boxers down with his left. He’s already halfway hard just from this; his hand moves in an irregular rhythm to get him the rest of the way. On the screen, there’s definitely a tent in Dragon’s shorts; he spreads his legs even wider (almost 180 degrees; God that’s flexible—Taiga imagines Dragon’s spreading them for him, just for him; his cock throbs). Dragon gets up and loops his thumbs through the belt loops on his shorts. He turns around, and fuck, those shorts are small; he can see the bottoms of Dragon’s ass cheeks, round and tight; Taiga wants even more to sink his fingers into that skin. Dragon turns his head to face the camera, looking over his shoulder, and blows a kiss. Taiga pumps his cock harder, imagining those pretty lips on it.  
  
Dragon pulls down the shorts slowly; he’s wearing a thong underneath and his bare ass does not disappoint. He slaps the tanned skin himself; the smacking sound hits Taiga deep (and oh, the tautness of his skin). He’s getting closer; he can feel it; Dragon turns around. He pivots the chair and sits, facing forward, playing with the waistband of the thong. There’s very little left to imagine, the shape and size of his cock abundantly clear by its outline underneath the fabric of the tiny thong. Dragon palms himself through the fabric, closes his eyes; the sound of his moan from the speakers mingles with Taiga’s own. Yeah, he’s close.   
  
Dragon’s just starting to pull down the thong when Taiga comes with a shout, and it takes a damn while for him to come down from it. He’s got to bookmark that site; he hasn’t gotten off like this in too long of a time.  
  
He receives an email with a summary of his credit card charges from the website the next morning, reminding him that for additional fees he can purchase some of Dragon’s video, or contact Dragon to arrange for a request (or if none of those interest him, he can always leave a tip). Taiga’s never been one to keep paying for porn, but if that was a good example of Dragon’s work there’s no reason not to start now.


	15. mibukaga, tatsuya steps aside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10927634#cmt10927634) (tatsuya & taiga go after the same guy; one of them steps aside)

Tatsuya sees Rakuzan’s Mibuchi for the first time across the court. He’s not playing, but Mibuchi is, and maybe it’s for the better. Tatsuya appreciates beautiful basketball when he’s playing against it, but it’s always secondary to the need to destroy (and even now, seeing the ball drop through the hoop with such grace ignites a surge inside of him to get out there and compete, win, beat that with something of his own). But from this distance he can see each shot, the quiet it creates around him, the impossible cratering of the defense underneath his jump. Tatsuya can’t wait to face him.  
  
It happens at a practice match, pre-season so-called friendly where Coach Araki glares at Rakuzan’s coach and his placed demeanor, and Tatsuya and Wei greet Rakuzan’s captain and vice-captain. Akashi quips that since Tatsuya’s American a handshake might be more appropriate, and while Tatsuya can’t remember much about Akashi’s hand Mibuchi’s is soft but firm, his hand roughly the size of Tatsuya’s. He’s not that much taller but he’s an imposing figure, the length of his neck and the smile on his face and, oh. Tatsuya doesn’t get crushes, only fleeting attractions—but, oh.  
  
The first time Tatsuya hears Taiga talk about Mibuchi is before he even realizes they know each other. It makes sense, he supposes; Taiga knows Akashi and Mibuchi knows Akashi and (from what Tatsuya’s heard from Atsushi) Akashi’s circle of (friends? confidantes?) is quite interconnected. But after that startled realization comes another, the soft look on Taiga’s face, the way he’s fidgeting with the buttons on his phone.  
  
“He said he wants me to show him some of my favorite shopping spots,” says Taiga. “Next time he’s here.”  
  
He looks up at Tatsuya again, and, oh. Tatsuya’s stomach does a funny little awful thing; it wants to lash out and bruise him from the inside but it wants to see Taiga smile like that again, the excitement in his face preserved. Tatsuya has no claim on Mibuchi; he barely knows him. He wants, yes—those shots, three in succession, that range, those gorgeous eyes, long fingers—but he doesn’t know how they’d hold onto a conversation, what they’d talk about; the attachment runs shallow like a river pooling under a ridge, unable to pass over. Taiga’s is the way everything is with Taiga, strong and sure and confident. And because it’s Taiga, because this is yet another thing in which Taiga has the advantage, all over again, the sick feelings telling Tatsuya to go for it, that even if he doesn’t really want Mibuchi he doesn’t want Taiga to have him first.   
  
“You should take him,” Tatsuya says, finally. “Show him that one you told me about downtown, by the crepe shop.”  
  
“Oh!” Taiga says. “Yeah…he’d look good in—”  
  
And then his voice breaks off; he looks away and almost drops his phone, and it’s cute.   
  
“He’s very pretty,” says Tatsuya, keeping the edge out of his voice. “There’s a lot he looks good in.”  
  
“I know,” says Taiga, and it’s the closest they get to really talking about it until Mibuchi gets there, coincidentally overlapping with Tatsuya’s next visit.  
  
Taiga apologizes, but it’s something he could have planned better—would have, if he hadn’t meant it like this. And there’s no way he knows about Tatsuya’s feelings (if there’s enough there to call them that), and he knows Taiga well enough that he knows for some reason, an ironic twist of fate in his guts, that Taiga still wants his approval. He can’t say no, even though it’s on the tip of his tongue, the I-thought-he-was-pretty-before-you-even-met-him because that doesn’t mean shit.  
  
“Himuro-san, this is nice,” says Mibuchi.  
  
“Likewise,” says Tatsuya, pretending they mean it in the same way.  
  
They all go shopping together; it’s not really Tatsuya’s thing but it’s enjoyable to see Mibuchi rifle decisively through the racks of clothes, choosing something that fits Taiga perfectly, until Tatsuya realizes he wouldn’t have thought of it himself, and he’s feeling every sort of jealousy he can (childish, stupid). Then Mibuchi finds something for him, holding it against him, hands warm though thin fabric of a decorative scarf, and, oh. And then his eyes slide over to Taiga, watching Mibuchi, and then Mibuchi’s eyes slide over to Taiga, and it’s almost as if Tatsuya doesn’t exist. He hates the burning feeling that makes him want to scream (but manages to keep quiet).  
  
“What did you think?” Taiga says, after, hesitant.  
  
Tatsuya could say a lot of things.  
  
“I think he likes you a lot, Taiga. Go get him.”  
  
The smile on Taiga’s face is worth it, Tatsuya reminds himself. He’s just got to look a little bit harder.


	16. murahimu, murasakibara is a wish spirit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11339435#cmt11339435) (tatsuya brings snacks for the wish spirit)

“Please accept my humble offering,” says Tatsuya.  
  
He spreads out an array of different-flavored maiubo (more bang for his buck) along with a Kit-Kat, a bag of assorted Hi-Chew, and a small packet of potato chips. The spirit had said to bring snacks, and had refused to specify more (beyond “they have to taste good”), and there ought to be something there to satisfy him (especially since he’s been sleeping since the eighties, apparently).  
  
The spirit picks up the Kit-Kat, tears the wrapper and bites off a corner. He chews on it, staring into the wall of the cave behind Tatsuya’s head as if contemplating something. Tatsuya turns around, just to check; when he turns back the tail end of the chocolate bar is disappearing into the spirit’s mouth.  
  
“Made you look,” says the spirit.  
  
Tatsuya is not impressed.   
  
“By the way,” says the spirit. “If you want to call me something, Atsushi is fine.”  
  
Tatsuya nods. “Atsushi it is.”  
  
“Look,” says the spirit. “I’m not going to steal your name if you tell it to me. Promise.”  
  
Tatsuya eyes him, his nearly seven-foot stature, the maiubo he has levitated into his hand (smaller than his thumb), the purple hair that drips like a waterfall over his head. If any spirit can help him with basketball, it’s this one—and in the scheme of things, a name is a small price to pay, isn’t it? (Maybe it’s another Japanese culture thing that his parents dropped somewhere over the Pacific.)  
  
“Tatsuya,” he says, finally.  
  
“Kay,” says Atsushi.  
  
“So,” says Tatsuya. “About my wish—”  
  
“Show me where to get more of this,” says Atsushi.   
  
Tatsuya tries not to let his impatience show. The more he helps this spirit, the better chance he has of his wish being taken seriously and granted properly, so he motions for Atsushi to follow him out of the cave. They both squint into the sunlight, Atsushi conjuring up a decent pair of old-school sunglasses for himself. Tatsuya pulls his snapback out of his bag and puts it on; it doesn’t help much. Atsushi stares at everything along the way; Tatsuya has no idea how much has changed since the last time Atsushi was out here. It looks kind of old-fashioned, but that doesn’t mean it’s necessarily thirty or forty years old.   
  
Atsushi wants everything in the convenience store, cookies and cakes and sandwiches; Tatsuya barters him down (and refuses to use his wish on extra cash) to a bag of shrimp chips, a bag of sour cream and onion chips, several of the maiubo flavors he’d bought for Atsushi last, and a roll cake. They walk back to the cave, plastic bags dangling from Tatsuya’s wrist, and sit outside in the afternoon sunlight. Atsushi offers up a slice of cake.  
  
“Thank you,” says Tatsuya. “That’s very generous.”  
  
Atsushi shrugs. “What do you want?”  
  
It takes Tatsuya a second to remember he’s talking about the wish. “Basketball talent. As much as you can give me.”  
  
Atsushi pops another chip into his mouth and frowns; Tatsuya wonders if he knows what basketball is. Maybe he doesn’t; maybe he’d chosen the wrong spirit.  
  
“Give me your hand,” Atsushi says.   
  
Tatsuya obliges. Atsushi’s fingers are hard and cool on his palm, tracing the lines. Atsushi’s frown deepens; his fingertips tickle Tatsuya’s skin but Tatsuya wills his hand to stay in place. He needs this.   
  
“I can’t do that,” Atsushi says, finally, but he still hasn’t let go of Tatsuya’s hand. “There’s something, I don’t know—-normally I’d be able to extend it, but there’s something inside of you blocking it.”  
  
“What,” says Tatsuya.  
  
Atsushi shrugs. “Can’t help you, sorry. I’ll pay you back for the snacks.”  
  
Tatsuya feels the words like a car backing into his face, like a knife ripping open his skin. Is he really so untalented magic can’t help him? He still hasn’t drawn back; Atsushi’s hand is warm against his.  
  
“Try,” says Tatsuya. “You’re a wish spirit.”  
  
(This is a fucking dumb move; he may not know much Japanese mythology but it’s pretty much universally true that spirits will fuck you over if you goad them or give them any wiggle room.) Atsushi slots his fingers between Tatsuya’s, caresses his thumb, and closes his eyes.  
  
Tatsuya feels the magic coursing through him, a slight electric shock, a slow pulse. He looks at Atsushi, knees folded to his chest, chip bag dangling from his free hand, hair hanging over his face. Atsushi’s human form is not beautiful, expertly-crafted; his features are a little on the crude side but they match his face, fit together, make his purple hair seem almost natural. Even if he’s not beautiful, he’s attractive, and Tatsuya feels something like want. This is dumb; Atsushi can’t even give him this simple wish; he shouldn’t be attracted. He feels himself leaning forward, as if compelled by the magic in his hands; he sees Atsushi’s face rise. Atsushi’s knees fall; he drops the chips and his other hand pulls Tatsuya in, down into Atsushi’s lap.  
  
And then they’re kissing, wet and rough; Atsushi tastes like salt and artificial flavoring; his tongue is all over and his mouth moves in something that doesn’t resemble a rhythm really at all. The pulse in Tatsuya’s hand grows faster; maybe this is it, how it has to work. And then Atsushi pulls back and it’s as if a glass filter’s come crashing down and smashed onto the ground.   
  
“Did it work?”  
  
“Did it,” says Atsushi, mouth contracting into some semblance of a smile. “I’m not sure yet.”  
  
(Tatsuya doesn’t give a damn if he’s lying; this time he kisses Atsushi first.)


	17. ryo/mao are a famous battery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11372459#cmt11372459)

They’ve been playing together for fourteen years, and Mao still gets nervous. She’s far more confident than she was back then (they both are), but that doesn’t stop her from staying up the night before a big game, her body fighting off years of ingrained martial arts breathing. There’s nothing bigger than the World Baseball Classic finale, no league championship or olympic medal game or even Koshien, their second year when they’d made it to the finals and Ryo had fooled the opposing batter with her then-mediocre curveball, Mao framing it perfectly and holding on (to say nothing of the way she’d hugged Ryo in her arms, warm and tight, and Ryo had just begun to slip her fingers around the idea that she didn’t want Mao to let go).  
  
“Mao,” says Ryo, softly.  
  
Mao sighs. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean—”  
  
“You’re okay,” says Ryo, rolling over to drape her arm over Mao’s stomach, brushing at her side through her t-shirt.   
  
“I still can’t believe we’re really here,” Mao says. “Team Japan, the Rays, any of it.”  
  
(And with Mao, it’s always the collective, the we, not the I or the me, always the team. And, selfish as she is, Ryo’s favorite of Mao’s teams is the two of them, Kisaragi’s battery.)  
  
“We are,” says Ryo. “When you go to sleep, you’re going to wake up and still be here. I’ll still be here.”  
  
“I know,” says Mao.   
  
Her hand covers Ryo’s on her side, twice its size, calloused from the drills she does every day, ball flying from her fingers as she drops down to her knees to throw out imaginary runners or block a wild pitch, preempting Ryo’s apologies for throwing them. She is a second backbone, supporting the team on her strong shoulders, stopping mistakes before they stumble out of control. She is so much, and no matter how much Ryo tries to tell her there is still so much credit she redistributes. And perhaps that’s the power she wields, the way Mao had been explained to her so long ago, an extension of the team who refuses to shine on her own. Ryo inhales the scent of the hotel shampoo in Mao’s hair, scooting over and turning to bury her face in Mao’s chest.   
  
“Night, Mao.”  
  
“Goodnight, Ryo.”  
  
Mao’s heartbeat is slow, steady; her chest rises and falls with the familiar count, like the rhythm of being in a game, Mao’s fingers dropping as Ryo stares into the sign, fast-curve-lightning-splitter-fast-curve-lightning-splitter until she falls asleep.


	18. himukise cannibals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11359147#cmt11359147) (kisehimu pleasant discussion of murder/cannibalism)

“I think it might be better if you start with the chest,” says Tatsuya. “If you can get the heart while it’s still warm and fresh.”  
  
Ryouta nearly grimaces; the thought of all that warm blood, messy and spilling everywhere, leaving evidence and spurting where it can’t flavor the meat—it’s just so typical for a man like that to be so wasteful and careless.  
  
“A fresh heart,” Ryouta says. “Like that of a chicken.”  
  
The comparison is terrible, but they’re locked in a stalemate, neither of them admitting that this is very much not hypothetical. Tatsuya seems to weigh Ryouta’s statement, and then nods.   
  
“But if you really wanted the best flavor, perhaps you’d start with the thighs,” Ryouta says.  
  
They’re always good, from the lean muscle of athletes, taut on the inside, to the thicker and softer, almost pudding-like consistency of the sedentary set. Yes, they keep better, but how can one let a human thigh go to waste, left in its prison of garish, bumpy skin? Tatsuya studies Ryouta’s face, as if designing how to (hypothetically, of course, if anyone were to ask) murder him .  
  
“You’d want to keep the face intact, I suppose” Tatsuya says. “If you were to cut the back of the neck in the right spot, paralyze and kill…”  
  
He trails off, leaving unspoken the words about how easy it would be to continue the incision, around to the front of the nec, slice upwards and remove the flesh of the face. Perhaps easy isn’t the right word, not for someone like him, but for Ryouta (born with a knife in his hand, they’d said, oblivious as to its connotations, all of them) it would be too simple. Just like this, tossing out so-called hypotheticals, retreading the same ground in new shoes. And speaking of faces, of bodies, they are on occasion useful for something other than sustenance or delicacy. Tatsuya’s body (how nice it would be to kill him, to wrap his hands around Tatsuya’s throat until he chokes, finger-mark bruises on the body, head lolling and limbs splayed out more awkwardly than he’d ever be in life) is right in front of him, and while you can only kill someone once you can fuck them until you run out of comparable things to count and that is something in its favor, for now.  
  
When he kills Tatsuya it will be simple, gorgeous; Ryouta is quite sure he’ll be delicious (the pretty ones might not tend toward that extreme, but the cruel ones always are). But for now, he licks the inside of Tatsuya’s lips, puts his leg between Tatsuya’s thighs, lets him enjoy it while he can.


	19. mayuaka, android akashi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11443627#cmt11443627)

Akashi’s a bit of an older model, but that doesn’t mean he’s no good. Just because Mayuzumi had gotten him used doesn’t mean he’s any less interesting than any of the brand-new Uncrowned models (though, if robots can perceive slight, this one does, and attempts to make up for it by ordering them around, and what’s more surprising is they accept his orders). It makes him a little bit more interesting, truth be told, considering the extensive modifications. One of his eyes is a replacement, not fully compatible with the rest of him; his old owner had gotten lazy after downgrading some of the drivers and hadn’t bothered to recompile; it’s probably the cause of his abruptness and unwillingness to call anyone by anything other than their first name.   
  
It’s also a huge drain on his battery, and though Akashi’s quirks are—not exactly cute, but something—Mayuzumi’s been on the hunt for a proper eye. At first, he’s willing to consider any, regardless of shape and color (the idea of one extra-small brown eye gaping in Akashi’s socket is amusing at first) but Akashi might reject it out of robotic spite. He’s not Mayuzumi’s pampered little prince who deserves the best, but his appearance reflects back on Mayuzumi as an owner, so really Mayuzumi’s options are pretty narrow (especially considering the unpopularity of red eyes for that particular model).   
  
When he finds one, it’s easy to make the switch. He powers Akashi down and yanks out the old eye. It’s oddly satisfying to see the wires dangling out of his socket, his mouth parted just enough for Mayuzumi to slip a few fingers inside if he wanted to. He doesn’t; it’s not something he does when Akashi’s turned off, and only rarely when he’s turned on—it’s always too cool and dry, even when Akashi’s in the middle of a sentence (God help him if the robot makers mimic saliva; he doesn’t have enough money for a Ringo-tan unit as it is). Right now he shouldn’t think about touching mouths; he should be touching wires to wires, eye to head; he takes a mental photograph of the second eye dangling out of Akashi’s socket before he shoves it in.  
  
It looks strange to finally see Akashi with two matching eyes, the symmetry of the red against red. It’s not a bad kind of strange, just a little bit off, but it’s always that way with replacement parts. He presses the power button.  
  
“Mayuzumi,” Akashi says, his lips parting farther into an expression that’s definitely closer to cute when paired with the matching eyes, and Mayuzumi could almost forgive the wrongness of hearing his surname (never mind the month and a half he’d spent trying to convince Akashi to call him that and give him the respect he deserves as a master).  
  
“What?” says Mayuzumi.   
  
“Come here,” says Akashi.   
  
Okay, maybe the bossiness has nothing to do with the eye. Maybe, Mayuzumi thinks, kissing Akashi’s dry mouth, he should replace an arm or a leg next.


	20. murahimu macro/micro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11443115#cmt11443115) (murasakibara is a giant)

Atsushi’s quite dexterous for someone taller than a small building, with hands the size of windowpanes. The first time he picks Tatsuya up is unpleasant, but that’s because he only half-cares about Tatsuya’s well-being and is more curious about the average human who dared approach him; after that he’s always gentle. Perhaps he’s picked up such fine motor skills from opening up bags of chips that to him look made for dolls, or perhaps it’s just an adaptation that’s necessary for anything when you’re living in a world made for people one tenth your size. But that’s the kind of thought that Tatsuya only thinks idly, when he’s perched on Atsushi’s shoulder or curled up resting on his chest.   
  
Most of their time is spent navigating each other’s bodies in a different way, trying to figure out how to best get each other off. Neither of them really has an advantage here; while Atsushi can essentially palm Tatsuya’s cock with the tip of his finger Tatsuya can make his touches so light and quick that they make Atsushi squirm and moan right away (though that’s a disadvantage for Tatsuya, given his all-too-limited reach and desire to not be squished). But still, Atsushi can’t touch Tatsuya exactly right, and Tatsuya has a difficult time working Atsushi up fast enough. They make it work, though, even if they have to find unusual ways (like the time Atsushi, pressing gently with his pinky, helps get a dildo into Tatsuya’s ass, or the time Tatsuya discovers that straddling Atsushi’s dick with sweatpants on gives them the best kind of friction to work with).   
  
Atsushi never warns Tatsuya when he’s about to come, which would be fine if they were of comparable size but as it is poses a bit of a risk whenever Tatsuya’s working at the head of Atsushi’s cock. He can’t fit much of the tip in his mouth; he’s tried (never when they’re this close) but he can kiss and lick and touch with both hands, feel Atsushi coming closer and closer to the edge.   
  
Today Tatsuya’s in the absolute wrong spot; he’s caught in the crossfire when Atsushi finishes, drenched in ribbons of Atsushi’s sticky, warm come; there’s some on his hair and his chest is draped in it and this is going to be hell to clean. He’s looking down at himself (he’s still hard, still wanting; he doesn’t need to see the bulge in his sweatpants to know that) and trying to figure out if the laundry’s going to handle that when Atsushi pics him up. He slips his thumb down the back of Tatsuya’s sweatpants, smearing some of the come that’s dripped over his back, pushing his thumb forward in between Tatsuya’s thighs. God, that feels good; Tatsuya forgets how sticky he is for a second. Atsushi’s thumb moves back and forth, touching his thighs and ass and balls and just reaching forward to the tip of his cock, and how can he be such a tease right after coming? (More than likely, it’s just a simple lazy motion, but it’s Atsushi. Even if that’s the case, he’s not unaware of the benefits.)


	21. muraaka david/goliath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11462315#cmt11462315)

Sometimes a stone is just a stone, but in sure, capable hands, however small, it is a scepter. It can conquer someone even like Murasakibara, unvanquished and monstrous and too large to be felled by any human weapon, too strong to be pulverized, weathering out barrages of fire. But Akashi strikes him down, brings him to his knees, to kiss his feet.   
  
Murasakibara does not say he is a monster; that much is self-evident. He is too large, even for a large man; his hands are likened to platters and palm fronds within his earshot, his mouth to a gaping maw, an uncharted cavern that goes deep within the earth. After he falls, they do not fear him as they once did; they mock him openly instead until he glares them into shrieks and finally to quiet, to running away and laughing when they think he’s moved on.   
  
“You are not a monster, Atsushi,” Akashi says, hand stroking Murasakibara’s hair, pressing it to the outline of his skull.  
  
(Primitive, slow, they call him, only muscle and not much use.)   
  
Murasakibara looks at his other hand, the small stone pressed in his palm, a reminder of what both of them once were, unproven versus undefeated. Akashi already has Murasakibara as a trophy; does he really need the stone, too? It’s irritating, but the words are trapped behind his tongue and he swallows them back down. The sun is setting outside, bringing relief from the heat, though Akashi seems unaffected, placid, a sheet of ice formed at the top of a puddle.  
  
“Then what are you?” says Murasakibara.  
  
Whatever he is himself, monster or man, Akashi has destroyed him and brought him down from a level too high to reach. That is nothing short of extraordinary, and though it’s recognized as such, though Akashi is lauded for it—does it not mean he’s a monster in some way? Perhaps people do not turn on him now; perhaps they never will. Perhaps he has just fought a monster he refuses to admit as such. Perhaps it’s not worth thinking about.  
  
Akashi doesn’t answer the question; his hand tightens around Murasakibara’s hair but then begins to comb through it again, sorting the hair into a neat center part. His hands are cool against Murasakibara’s scalp, hands that could wield stones, swords, shields. Murasakibara closes his eyes. He’s not ready to sleep just yet, but when he is he knows Akashi will still be there.


	22. akakise pinocchio au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11358635#cmt11358635) (kise is akashi's creation)

Ryouta is a beautiful paradox. He is alive but lifeless; he acts and speaks but he does not understand the process. He mimics, cleverly, well, but not well enough. Conversations turn stilted, as stiff as his wooden joints. He is beautiful, miraculous, but still an imitation of life paler than fresh milk. And Seijuurou loves him.  
  
It’s not the same way his parents loved him; though he is Seijuurou’s creation and though Seijuurou has had to teach him so much, he had still sprung to life as a semi-functioning adult. It is difficult to qualify, and every time he does he can’t put his finger on it, but it’s more than simple fondness. It is perhaps because Ryouta is, now, as he is, singing along to the radio with a magazine folded on his lap, the fruit of all of Seijuurou’s labors. He is not only the carving of the wood, the fastening of the joints, the whittling of the face; he is the end result of all the puppets that came before him, crude and completely lifeless. Seijuurou has taught him to read, to speak, to act; he is limited only by Seijuurou’s limitations (which means he can’t cook, either, but Seijuurou can afford takeout every night, and he’d really rather not have Ryouta stand close to a fire).   
  
And his drive, singular, focused, insatiable, burning inside of him, to be a real human—that kind of goal is what makes Seijuurou proudest of him, the part of Ryouta that reflects back best on Seijuurou. And perhaps this is closer to a parental love than Seijuurou had thought (perhaps more like the kind of love from a much-older sibling).   
  
Ryouta doesn’t need to sleep, but he goes to bed when Seijuurou does. Sometimes, Seijuurou thinks of kissing his forehead or his cheek, but that’s bad for the wood. Sometimes, Ryouta seems to almost expect it.   
  
And so they go. Ryouta learns, absorbing knowledge like a paper towel, built to hold more than his wooden shoulders could carry if it was physical, perfecting his mimicry on the first try. He understands more of the words he’s saying; he processes the meaning of waiting for a streetlight or tipping the barista at Seijuurou’s favorite cafe. He begins to express opinions and feelings, not in accordance with Seijuurou but on his own. He likes this TV show; he hates this radio program; he thinks this type of flower smells good. Whatever barrier remains to being a real human, he can’t be far away.  
  
They’re standing in the doorway when it happens, Ryouta helping Seijuurou with his coat while kicking off his own shoes (the worst thing about Ryouta’s growing independence is the bad habits he’s picked up and doesn’t seem to want to be rid of).  
  
“Akashichii...I think I love you,” says Ryouta, blinking like he’s just realized it.  
  
Maybe he has; Seijuurou’s not the best at teaching others how to understand their feelings. When the mysterious blue fairy who had imbued life into Ryouta in the first place appears again, Seijuurou is positive.  
  
“I see you have learned to love,” says the fairy, dull expression on his face.  
  
Ryouta just stares at the fairy. The fairy waves his wand (at least, Seijuurou thinks he does; he doesn’t quite see the motion but then glitter begins to fall from the ceiling).  
  
“Don’t worry,” says the fairy. “It cleans itself.”  
  
When the glitter falls away, Ryouta’s not there; it’s a person, flesh and blood and breath and muscle, gaping at his own hands. He’s got hair the same bright yellow color, long eyelashes, beautiful cheekbones, all of the features Seijuurou had tried to paint on Ryouta’s wood frame.  
  
“Akashichii!” says Ryouta.   
  
Seijuurou looks back to the fairy, but he’s gone already. Ryouta’s looking at him like he’s the only person in the world, and Seijuurou wouldn’t know how to design this even if he was capable. Ryouta reaches for his hand; his skin is soft and warm (Seijuurou had ever-so-carefully filed out the splinters from wood once upon a time). He steps toward Seijuurou, and Seijuurou realizes exactly what he means.


	23. mayuaka, domestic au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [ here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11415723#cmt11415723) (akashi takes pictures of everything)

Chihiro finishes the album on Friday, placing the last photo on the last page, and placing it back under the bed. It’s the last album in its pile; any on top of it would jam against the bedframe.  
  
“You take too many photos,” says Chihiro, and Seijuurou snaps another picture of his annoyed face.  
  
Seijuurou doesn’t ask if he takes too many photos why Chihiro insists on organizing them all into albums. He’d be happy to keep them in boxes, or sort through them himself, but Chihiro insist on doing it this way (and complains the whole time).   
  
Despite Chihiro’s accusations, Seijuurou’s photography isn’t random, nor is it an attempt to comprehensively log all of his experiences. Sure, there’s the kitchen when they’d moved in and the kitchen after they’d had it renovated and the kitchen in various states with Chihiro cooking, but it’s because all of them are important. He’s not going to forget them but it’s nice to see them and get the reward of remembering right in that moment. There are other things, too; there are trains and offices and Chihiro outside the supermarket on a hot day, watermelon tucked uner his arm, sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead. There’s Chihiro on the beach, gesturing with his hand, talking about how Seijuurou’s going to get sand in his camera. There’s Reo and Kotarou’s last visit, the two of them drinking tea on the couch, Kotarou’s obnoxiously-popped collar. It’s the things he doesn’t forget but doesn’t necessarily remember to think about, or remember in the sharp detail of the moment captured by the camera.  
  
“I still don’t get it,” says Chihiro, and Seijuurou takes a picture of the ceiling fan.  
  
Chihiro grabs the picture from the end of the camera, before it’s finished developing. There’s a new album under their bed by the end of the day, with a red leather binding and no label. They’ll know which one it is.  
  
There are a few pictures Seijuurou doesn’t let Chihiro have, for albums and otherwise. He has a small album of his own, kept in his locked desk drawer in the study, slim and blue. Chihiro, dozing on the couch, not even waking after the shutter clicks; Chihiro, soft look in his eyes as he stares into space (only making a halfhearted motion to hit away the camera afterward); Chihiro’s favorite books stacked on the end table; the posters Chihiro’s had since high school that he and Seijuurou have compromised on by putting them up in the guest room; the chipped bowl that Chihiro refuses to let Seijuurou replace. Those are the things he always remembers, the things he always wants to remember, the things he needs to keep with him.


	24. murahimu werewolf/vampire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11439531#cmt11439531)

Atsushi’s quite pale, but it’s a function of all the time he spends on the indoors with Tatsuya, only going outside under the glow of the stars (and perhaps the moon). His sleep schedule, too, is closer to nocturnal than anything else, although he takes plenty of naps at night. It’s enough to make people ask if Atsushi’s the vampire and the less-visibly-threatening Tatsuya is the wolf. Tatsuya doesn’t bother explaining that wolves are nocturnal, and that Atsushi seems like the kind of person who would sleep all day if he’d never been bitten in the first place (nor does he bother explaining his irritation with the concept of fitting people into neat little boxes based on affliction).   
  
“This doesn’t bother you?” Tatsuya asks, and even with the blackout shades all the way down he can see Atsushi stretch beside him.  
  
“What doesn’t bother me?”  
  
“This,” says Tatsuya. “Sleeping during the day.”  
  
“If I want to get up, I’ll get up,” says Atsushi, and he rolls over, taking the covers with him.  
  
Tatsuya has to pull them away just enough to tuck himself in, right next to the heat of Atsushi’s body. His own skin is so very cold, but Atsushi’s stopped shrinking away from it even when he’s trying to keep himself warm. The covers will take care of that, and his own heat; outside the day must be breaking because Tatsuya feels so drowsy so suddenly.   
  
The difference between him and Atsushi is that he is a monster all of the time, fangs bared and waiting, dissatisfied by anything but the taste of blood. He can always smell it on humans, even when they’re not bleeding, fuzzing his concentration. Atsushi’s only a monster for one night every twenty-eight days; the rest of the time he’s as normal as he can be. He can walk into a crowd of humans without careful preparation; his urges are for ordinary things, candy and television and sex and extra sleep. Even as a wolf he’s relatively tame, rolling in the grass to scratch his back or nosing Tatsuya’s hand for a pet, or lying down and going to sleep even then, while Tatsuya watches the moon grow higher in the sky and sits back on his hands. And he thinks about the smell of blood in the air, the closest occupied human house, and is disgusted with himself.   
  
He holds Atsushi up on the way back home, short to him but long when your muscle and bone has been transmuted one way and back again in just a few hours. Even before the sun comes, Atsushi’s got both of them back into bed, his face buried in Tatsuya’s neck, and Tatsuya thinks only about Atsushi, the shape of his hands on Tatsuya’s waist and the softness of his lips.


	25. midokise, midorima does kise's modeling agency finances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11117227#cmt11117227)

“No," says Midorima, flipping through the last few pages of the contract as if to be sure there’s nothing that cancels out his latest disagreement.  
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
“I’m not a contract lawyer, so I’m not sure if this is even legal,” says Midorima. “But they’re basically asking for a short period where you get paid, and a longer period after that where your cut is significantly reduced.”  
  
“Oh,” says Kise. “But my agent—”  
  
“Probably only looked at the part relevant to him, as they have so carefully highlighted on the ninth page.” At that, Midorima looks angry and flips to the page, one corner folded over.  
  
Kise stares down the words; a lot of them are way too formal but he knows what a flat rate is, and that for the duration of this contract the agency will be receiving a flat fee, not subject to interest rates. His agent had put a post-it that asks if they can negotiate that last bit, but nothing else.   
  
“Doesn’t he get a percentage of what I get?”  
  
“Usually,” says Midorima. “That’s industry standard, but you’ve waived your right in your own contract.”  
  
“Oh,” says Kise.   
  
“We’re sending this back,” says Midorima. “It’s not fair to you.”  
  
“Wait,” says Kise. “Why does it matter to you?”  
  
“Fairness?”  
  
“No. The agency’s getting a decent deal.”  
  
Midorima shrugs; the edges of his cheeks turn pink. “It’s our job to read the contract carefully and get the best deal for our clients.”  
  
It makes sense; Midorima’s quite thorough, but still, Kise sense something else. He’s always been good at reading people, and there’s something in the way Midorima’s fingers rest on the desk, red pen in his left hand, his expression fixed on Kise.   
  
“So," Kise drawls, putting his hand on his hip and leaning in, the pose that rarely fails even on people like Midorima who have been in the industry for years—and it works now, Midorima’s face flushing in full, the pen falling from his fingers onto the floor.  
  
“Could it be, you care about me, Midorimacchi?”  
  
“I care,” Midorima says, breath shallow. “About all of our talent.”  
  
“But you care about me the most, right?” Kiss leans over the desk now, face maybe ten centimeters from Midorima’s (God, his eyelashes are long and thick and from the looks of things all-natural; some people have all the luck).  
  
Midorima nods before he can stop himself, and Kise smiles wider. “Good.”  
  
He’s debating whether to leave right now and leave Midorima thoroughly teased, or just to kiss him (because he wants it, too, and he’s never been good at indefinite waits), but Midorima makes the decision for him, standing up slightly and brushing his lips with Kise’s.


	26. imasusakasa noir au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11393963#cmt11393963)

Kasamatsu waits under the inconsistent glow of the flickering streetlight, the spark of his lighter visible in the darkness even from a few blocks away. Imayoshi adjusts his hat again and Susa sighs, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his pants. Imayoshi links his arm in Susa’s, clings to it.   
  
“It’s dark and scary out.”  
  
“You’re horrible,” says Susa. “I’m sure Kasamatsu will give you a light.”  
  
“He’s nicer than you are, Susa,” says Imayoshi, pouting.  
  
Susa snorts. None of them are exactly nice, guns in their waistbands, knives in their suspenders, secrets tucked invisibly under their hats, into the lapels of their jackets. Kasamatsu’s hand is a little more gentle than Susa’s, sometimes, though just as blunt; sometimes Imayoshi likes to play favorites with him and Susa hates admitting that it makes him just a little jealous. (He always tells Imayoshi that Kasamatsu’s his favorite, even though it’s not really true; he just loves making Imayoshi laugh—if he’d told Kasamatsu Imayoshi was his favorite he might get slapped and it’s not worth it.)  
  
Kasamatsu looks past them as they approach, his cigarette finally lit, the smell of tobacco and mint filling the air unfiltered. Susa breathes it in; Imayoshi digs a loose one out of his pocket and leans forward, lighting it on Kasamatsu’s.  
  
“Ask first, asshole,” says Kasamatsu.  
  
“There’s enough to go around,” says Imayoshi.   
  
“Still mine,” says Kasamatsu.  
  
Imayoshi offers his cigarette to Susa; there’s enough light to see the nicotine stains on his fingers. Susa wrinkles his nose; he can afford his own. There are still places in the city open late enough that sell cheap enough. Imayoshi exhales into the air; Susa’s a bit surprised he’s not blowing smoke into his face but that’s Imayoshi for you.   
  
“Anyway,” says Kasamatsu. “You got the money?”  
  
Susa digs his left hand further into his pocket, pulling out the wad of bills. They’ve all been marked and checked; they’re all legitimate; they need to be exchanged for different serials but that’s out of his hands and firmly in Kasamatsu’s.  
  
“Thanks,” says Kasamatsu, pocketing the stack.   
  
He’s not going to check them here, conspicuously, standing under a street lamp when they’re the only ones around (even passing them is risky, but it’s as far as they’ll go). He knows where to find Susa if things are unsatisfactory. Susa nods, and checks his other pocket; he’s got a cigarette pack in there though it’s probably empty. The off-chance is good this time around; he’s got two left and takes one out.   
  
“This is awfully suspicious,” says Imayoshi. “Three guys, smoking under a street lamp.”  
  
“You’re the one who wanted to meet here,” says Susa, cigarette between his teeth.  
  
He leans over and lights it on the end of Kasamatsu’s; there’s barely any left.   
  
“Doesn’t mean I wanted to stay,” says Imayoshi.  
  
Kasamatsu sighs. “Your place or mine?”  
  
“They’re one and the same, Darling,” says Imayoshi.


	27. kasakiyo car wash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11462571#cmt11462571) (kiyoshi needs a car; kasamatsu works at a car wash)

“Babe,” says Kiyoshi.  
  
Kasamatsu hates it when Kiyoshi calls him that, for various reasons he’s already explained way too many damn times; Kiyoshi does it anyway, probably just to annoy him at this point.   
  
“No,” says Kasamatsu. “Whatever you’re trying to butter me up for, the answer is no.”  
  
“I only need a car,” says Kiyoshi. “Just one car; they always leave the keys and they’ll never know it’s gone.”  
  
“No,” says Kasamatsu, again. “Whatever you need a car for, you can rent one.”  
  
The sun is burning on his back; Kasamatsu slips off the top of his jumpsuit and ties it around his waist; he sees Kiyoshi’s eyes jump appreciatively to the muscles on his shoulders and back and he can’t say he’s not pleased with that reaction (he works too damn hard for any net positive outcome to go unnoticed).   
  
“I’ll help you wash it when I’m done.”  
  
“You are not getting it dirtier,” says Kasamatsu. “Customers trust us with their cars; I’m not going to violate that trust just so you can take a joyride.”  
  
“It’s not a joyride,” says Kiyoshi, leaning over the hood.  
  
Kasamatsu scrubs at the window; he’s not going to tell Kiyoshi off for leaving fingerprints when he has to wash that side later anyway, and not when Kiyoshi seems so close to telling him what the fuck is actually going on. On the other hand, he looks like he’s done; if he has nothing else to say it probably is a joyride in a car he can never afford.  
  
“You are not drag racing in an Audi station wagon.”  
  
“But Kasamatsu—it’ll be fun; you can come with.”  
  
(Kasamatsu loves cars; it’s part of why he took this job, but he loves cars when they’re used for their intended purpose and he’ll drive all day in a souped-up commuter car, slash the corners and blow through the lights on abandoned suburban roads, but this is ridiculous.)  
  
“Kiyoshi. No.”  
  
He knows as soon as his back is turned Kiyoshi’s going to try to do it anyway, and he’ll be off before Kasamatsu can stop him.  
  
“Hey, Kobori!”  
  
Kobori waves from over where he’s washing an old-school Honda Civic, one of the ones with insane gas mileage.   
  
“Can you come keep an eye on him?”  
  
“Eye on who?”  
  
Fuck. Kiyoshi’s already ambling over toward the Audi; the key’s already in the ignition and he is absolutely not going to do this again. Yeah, everything had come back in one piece last time, but there shouldn’t have fucking been a last time because this is a car wash, not some kind of loaning program where the owners pay Kasamatsu to inch up the odometer.   
  
“Get back here!”  
  
“I love you!” Kiyoshi calls.  
  
(No, that does not make up for anything.)


	28. nijihai where they stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=9696530#cmt9696530) (teikou doesn't fall apart; shuu's dad is ok; shougo stays)
> 
> shutoku!nijimura

“You know the court.”  
  
The voice message is short and blunt, not even a greeting or a shitty attempt at flirting (Shougo’s lucky he’s cute and for whatever reason Shuuzou likes him). Shuuzou sighs, slumping down in his seat. Class is over; Thursday practices are optional but he doesn’t like missing them anyway. No one at Shutoku does, though they also treat it as truly optional, a good place to try new plays and positions or take a day of rest. Shuuzou’s not going to be resting, though; that’s for damn sure.  
  
He grabs his schoolbag and stands up.  
  
“Practice?” says Miyaji.  
  
“Nah, I have a thing,” says Shuuzou. “Tell everyone I’m sorry.”  
  
Miyaji mutters something like “you tell my brother” and Shuuzou rolls his eyes. He checks his phone; there are no new messages, voice or otherwise. At least the court’s relatively close by; at least Teikou’s relatively close to Shutoku (and it’s not why he’d chosen it, especially not when Shougo could end up anywhere in high school).  
  
Shougo's already there when he arrives, already sweating; he slaps in a layup and dribbles halfway down, not even noticing Shuuzou’s there. He’s grown so much, from a mimic and a thief to the kind of player who synthesizes all the moves in his bag of tricks, mixes them up to create something entirely new and lethal. Shuuzou recognizes bits and pieces, but not how to put them there; that creativity is all Shougo.  
  
He checks Shuuzou the ball before he even has his sneakers tied; it’s one of those days. When Shuuzou had told Shougo he could take any of Shougo’s unleashed aggression and anger, he’d meant it, and it’s not untrue. He knows it’s hard sometimes; he knows what it’s like to use his own feelings to destroy and wreck, and it’s never because it’s fun (no matter what defense mechanisms he uses).  
  
They play for an hour, and they’re both spent by the end; Shougo leans against the fence, face red and that awful dyed hair sticking to his neck (they fight about it a lot; Shuuzou’s not going to push it right now). His hands are on his knees; his uniform shirt is stained with sweat. Shuuzou drops his arm around Shougo’s shoulders, kissing his sweaty cheek. Shogun looks at him, raw anger and sadness and frustration in his eyes.  
  
“I want to start,” he says.  
  
“I know,” says Shuuzou.  
  
“Goddamn it,” says Shougo, kicking the ground.  
  
High school’s a long way away; he’s had enough minutes that losing his starting job won’t mean he won’t be scouted; even the second-rate Teikou kids can go somewhere good (and Shougo’s far from that). It’s not fair that he’s crowded out of the best basketball team the middle school circuit’s ever seen; it’s not fair that he’s had his starting job snatched out from under him when despite the way he downplays it he loves basketball just as hard as Kise does (has for longer, and there are so few things in life he can cling to like that). Another year and he’ll be somewhere else, some team’s ace forward, but it’s awfully hard to think that far ahead when you’re fourteen.  
  
“Come over today,” says Shuuzou. “Stay for dinner.”  
  
(He’ll argue with the kids and Shuuzou’s parents will laugh and Shougo won’t have to cook and he’ll feel a lot better.)  
  
“Okay,” says Shougo.  
  
Shuuzou slips Shougo’s hand in his before they stand up; Shougo looks up at him, eyes softer. He can be awfully cute sometimes, not that Shuuzou’s ever going to tell him that.


	29. akamido, midorima does akashi's poker forecast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=9671698#cmt9671698)

Visiting a fortune teller is not absurd. Akashi’s had Mibuchi read his tarot before games; it’s all part of the preparation process. He ought to try and know what he’s facing, whether that’s through natural means or supernatural (and whether those methods are reliable or not, as open to interpretation as they are).   
  
“You are a Sagittarius, are you not?”  
  
Akashi nods.  
  
The fortune teller turns over his palm, peering through his glasses. The bandaged fingers of his left hand trace the lines on Akashi’s hand.  
  
“Sagittarius is in twelfth place today. Terrible luck will befall you in competition; your lucky item is a pair of spectacles for the very nearsighted.”  
  
Akashi blinks. “I have a poker match today.”  
  
“Try to reschedule, then,” says the fortune teller. “You will lose.”  
  
“I always win,” says Akashi.   
  
The fortune teller looks at him.  
  
“It’s the World Series of Poker,” says Akashi. “I can’t reschedule.”  
  
The fortune teller’s stare is sharp; Akashi doesn’t like it.  
  
“What was that about a lucky item? Spectacles?”  
  
“Yes,” says the fortune teller. “Like these.”  
  
He points to his own, slipping down his nose.  
  
“Can I have your glasses?”  
  
“I can’t see without them,” says the fortune teller. “As much as I understand the importance of lucky items—”  
  
“Come with me,” says Akashi. “To the match. Are they still lucky if you’re wearing them?”  
  
“I—I have a job.”  
  
“I’ll see to it that you are handsomely compensated after I win the match,” says Akashi. “Come.”

* * *

The fortune teller (Midorima, he says his name is) huffs and stutters, but eventually agrees to be at the casino that night. Akashi considers it the first step toward victory. He’s never heard of lucky items before, but this is poker, and anything could make or break the game. Midorima, at least, seems to share Akashi’s views on preparation.  
  
He shows up fifteen minutes later, smartly dressed; his hand is still bandaged but Akashi is beginning to realize how handsome he is, delicate features and pouting lips. There’s no time for that with the match so soon.  
  
Akashi wins, of course; the game is close but he bluffs his way out and manages a royal straight flush in the last round. He slips a stack of twenties in Midorima’s hand after the winnings are divided, and Midorima pushes it back in his hand.  
  
“I can’t take this.”  
  
An honest man. He’s getting even better. Akashi reaches up and kisses him; he tastes faintly of sweet red beans.  
  
“For luck, then,” Akashi says.  
  
“For luck,” Midorima echoes.


	30. kikasa superheroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10542610#cmt10542610)

“We’re here to do our jobs, not socialize,” says Kasamatsu.

“But Kasamatsu-san,” Kise whines. “The people want to take pictures with us! It’s our job to please them.”

“It’s our job to save them when the fuck up or get attacked. Everything else the PR people can take care of.”

“But the people—”

“Will be grateful no matter what. Do you want me to kick you?”

Kise pouts, crossing his arms over his suit, all blue spandex leaving nothing to the imagination. Kasamatsu can feel the heat creeping up into his face, into his belly. He looks away, not before he sees the glint of Kise’s smile, the flash of his teeth.

“Kasamatsu-san…”

Kasamatsu groans. Kise slides his arm around Kasamatsu’s waist and squeezes, and for a second Kasamatsu forgets what they’re doing.

“We’re still on the clock, asshole,” he mutters.

As if on cue, his phone rings.

“You ready?”

Kise’s already flying into the air, swinging into a loop (what a showboat). Below them, he hears the shrieks of admiring fangirls, pointing fingers and cell phones up at him. Typical; yelling him about that isn’t worth the waste of breath.

Kise gets there first; he’s already apprehended the the carjacker and the car itself is pristine, but halfway in both lanes. Kasamatsu sighs and begins to focus his psychic energy on the car. Kiss is chatting with the cops, but Kasamatsu’s not too mad. At least he gets to play his part. He pushes with his mind, levitating the body of the car just slightly, enough to get rid of the friction between it and the ground. He swings it around straight and then drags it to the side, setting it down in an open parking spot before sinking himself to the ground to stand next to Kise.

“Are we ready?” says Kise. “The police will take care of the rest.”

Kasamatsu nods.

“Good job with the car,” Kise says as they fly back to the base.

“You saw that?” says Kasamatsu (he’d thought Kise had been too preoccupied with talking to the cop).

“Of course I do. I always see you,” says Kise, a little bit of real hurt stuck in his voice, and—oh.

Kissing while flying is a bad idea; Kasamatsu doesn’t need to be told twice. But fuck it. He pulls Kise in by the hands and smashes their mouths together until Kise smiles against him.

 


	31. camboy kuroko

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10656786#cmt10656786)

Tetsuya can feel the eye of the camera centered on him. He wets his lips with his tongue; already the messages are popping up on his screen. (“KYAAAAA SO CUTE” followed by a string of emoji from someone called Shalala, “Excellent” from ShogiEmperor4, and “damn boiiiii that ass unf” from MaiChan4Eva.) They see him; like the singular glowing red of the webcam they are focused on him. This is power; this is the power that comes from visibility. It’s not something he wants all of the time, but something that he wants available to him. And here it is. All of their eyes are on him (and going by the averages of internet feedback, they’re only one percent; he never looks at the view count too closely but it’s been steadily growing). Tetsuya smiles softly.  
  
“Hello,” Tetsuya says softly.  
  
The message notification comes up again; Tetsuya doesn’t look this time but he smiles at his viewers, a reward for them. He wiggles his hips.  
  
“Good evening. Welcome to the show.”  
  
He moves his hips back and forth, slowly turning to the side and shaking his ass, then to the other side. He’s going to tease it slower this time, not turn around fully until he’s sure their hands are all down their pants, hot or hard or slick or ready however they get. Tetsuya sticks his own hand down his pants, stroking his own length once and closing his eyes, throwing his head back, feeding the theatrics. It feels ridiculous but good; he pulls his hand out and begins to play with his shirt. The message notifications begin to interrupt each other; Tetsuya’s through with teasing. He bites his lip and whips off his belt, gyrating his hips all over again.  
  
“This is for you; just for you,” he says, because who is he to not return the favors they give him?   
  
He pops the button on his pants, undoing the zipper, pulling the halves apart so the top of his briefs are visible. He strokes himself through the fabric; this time it really feels good and he makes sure to enjoy the friction, groaning even though he doesn’t have to; it’s a sound made up from his conscious mind but no less lewd. He licks his lips again, stares straight ahead into the camera, and lowers his voice.  
  
“I feel so good.”  
  
They don’t even know how true it is.


	32. akamido kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11614185#cmt11614185)
> 
> 6 fills on this card

1\. punishment

“Shintarou…”  
  
Akashi’s voice purrs like sweet engine, thrills going right down Midorima’s spine, bright and sparking until the edge in his voice becomes apparent and the thrills turn to a shiver, darker but no less anticipatory.  
  
“I don’t have to tell you what you did,” says Akashi.  
  
He’s standing behind Midorima, but Midorima doesn’t dare to turn, to try and look him in the eye. It would look condescending, the downward tilt of his head (he can’t help having nearly a foot in height on Akashi, but as Kashi reminds him when he does it wrong, he can help the way he looks at him). Midorima pushes those thoughts out of his mind, focusing on all of the little things he’d done wrong today, which one had mattered to Akashi enough to bring it up.  
  
It’s not the incorrect change he’d held out initially for the bus; it’s not the brown trouser socks with black shoes. He thinks again about the open door to the music room; he’d managed to slip in while Akashi was away—but, oh, shit, had he left that book of etudes open on top of the piano?   
  
“I’m sorry,” says Midorima. “I’ll put all the music away next time.”  
  
Akashi clicks his tongue. “What a sloppy, sloppy boy. And you know what happens to sloppy boys, don’t you?”  
  
“Yes,” says Midorima.   
  
“Of course you do,” says Akashi, voice smooth like a champagne flute.  
  
Midorima sinks to his knees and turns to face Akashi’s groin; just as Akashi doesn’t have to tell him what he’s done he doesn’t have to tell what to do. He’s been so sloppy about everything lately; he needs to be punished; he needs the reinforcement.  
  
“Can you follow directions well enough to do this?” says Akashi.  
  
“Yes,” says Midorima; his voice is already hoarse (shit, he wants it; his whole body is crying out for Akashi to start, and a voice quite like Akashi’s in the back of his mind whispers that naughty boys like him have to be patient).   
  
Akashi unzips his trousers and pushes down his underwear, pulling out his cock, and Midorima knows he’s allowed to stare now, the dark head under the pad of Akashi’s thumb, the way it sits in his hand, how much Midorima wants to be the one touching it, taking it in to the back of his throat.  
  
“If you’re good,” says Akashi, throwing back his head, his neck looking longer and paler from this angle. “Maybe you can touch tomorrow.”  
  
The plea dies on Midorima’s lips; his eyes are too focused on Akashi’s fingers, his cock getting harder and harder. Even if he wasn’t used to this, he wouldn’t flinch when Akashi comes all over him with a shout, splattering his glasses and face and hair and his second-best shirt.   
  
“Look at you,” says Akashi, with a sneer, and Midorima catches sight of himself in the mirror behind them and comes in his pants.

* * *

2\. nipple play

Shintarou’s body is wonderful. There is no proper word to encompass everything about it that makes it so, but that doesn’t mean Seijuurou hasn’t tried; this one is hollow and inadequate but for now Seijuurou supposes it can stay as a placeholder. But which other word could he use to describe Shintarou’s legs, longer than the coastline of the entire island of Honshu (and those soft, gapless thighs!); his hands, the long fingers and slim palms warm and firm against Seijuurou’s; the curve of his toes; the outline of his hipbones and his soft stomach (especially when his cock is hard and flush against it); the sharp hairline; sensitive ears; eyelashes impossibly long and green. There is nothing in this world too much for Seijuurou to handle, except, apparently, this. It’s vexing, but at the same time Shintarou’s body distracts him from that, makes him think about it all the time.  
  
And all of that is leaving out Shintarou’s nipples.  
  
Shintarou claims distractions at work are improper, but everyone gets a cigarette break even if they don’t smoke and there’s no reason Shintarou can’t spend his in a bathroom stall. Seijuurou knows Shintarou likes pleasing him, even if it’s against his supposedly-better judgement, and he can use that to his advantage when he wants to, which is really only once or twice a week. At about that interval, Shintarou sends him a bathroom selfie, his shirt pulled up, his nipples tweaked hard. Seijuurou never opens his attachments when he’s on the office wifi network.  
  
And that’s enough to tide him over, but it’s not enough for a whole week, and even if paying them attention means neglecting the rest of Shintarou, it’s a sacrifice Seijuurou’s willing to make.   
  
He touches one right on the head, then circles it with his thumb; Shintarou stiffens beneath him. Seijuurou leans down over it, breathes on it; it’s growing hard and firm and very good. Shintarou makes a small sound, arching his back; Seijuurou leans away. He’s not going to give Shintarou the satisfaction quite yet.   
  
Seijuurou moves to the other, circling counterclockwise this time with his pinky, then brushing the air right on top; Shintarou’s sounds are louder and closer to groans than nothings. Perhaps waiting longer would punish both of them. Seijuurou kisses first one, then the other, glancing up to Shintarou’s eyes after that. His glasses are askew, his eyelids fluttering shut. Seijuurou’s barely started, but this is going to be good.

* * *

3\. sensory deprivation

“Take them off, Shintarou,” Akashi says.  
  
Midorima is still wearing briefs and an open shirt, but he knows exactly what Akashi means. He takes off his glasses, blinking as the world turns into a blur around him, what had been sharp and clear just a second ago now faded, low-resolution. He knows where Akashi is; he knows where the bed is (he’s made his way back in the middle of the night before well enough). He takes a step forward.  
  
“Keep coming,” says Akashi, and Midorima obeys.  
  
“Give them to me,” says Akashi, and Midorima obeys again.  
  
He can do nothing else but trust in Akashi to lead him, the low lights and matching furniture creating a universe where he’s not sure what direction is which the more he thinks about it. His hands are free; he’s balancing; he closes his eyes to revert to the stability of darkness.   
  
“Is it too much?” says Akashi.  
  
Midorima shakes his head, exhaling slowly. He hears the creak of the floorboards as Akashi steps forward, and he waits. There it is, Akashi’s fingers brushing over his chest, fingernails scratching softly at his skin. Midorima sighs; Akashi drags his knuckles up to Midorima’s shoulder, then lifts off and taps Midorima’s chest again, his stomach (or maybe that’s the other hand). It’s a dance of touch, randomized, coming at all the places that make him shutter, down his abdomen and into the dip of his waist, over his hipbone, and then a hand flat against his sternum, scraping down, down, and then pulled away. Midorima groans; he wants Akashi’s hand back, wants, wants, wants—and then he feels it at the bottom hem of his briefs, the top of his thighs, tries to lean in and twist to touch his cock to Akashi’s hand but Akashi pulls away.  
  
“Wait,” says Akashi, and his voice sounds almost faraway.   
  
And then his hot breath is on Midorima’s groin, his mouth takes Midorima’s cock in through his briefs; he tongues Midorima through the fabric, soaking through; Midorima moans.   
  
“Please…”  
  
“Shh,” Akashi croons, right onto Midorima’s cock, and then his hand comes up to play with Midorima’s ass; Midorima’s eyes almost fly open to look at him crouching down, extending his arm, but he can’t see anyway and that’s not part of the deal.   
  
Akashi squeezes his ass and then shoves his hand up the back of Midorima’s underwear, fingers pressing up against his asshole, tongue still pressing at the shaft of Midorima’s cock and his body isn’t sure if he wants to rock forward or back, but he can feel his knees begin to shake. He moans again; it feels good to hear himself, and he knows Akashi likes it, too. Akashi hums appreciatively, the vibrations against Midorima’s cock making it stiffer still.

* * *

4\. spanking

When Akashi looks at Midorima with shame in his eyes, Midorima knows the deal by now. It doesn’t stop his stomach from quavering or his cock twitching in his pants. Akashi looks at him, then at the ground, the master of a pose he had probably never adopted as a child, a kind of posturing that is nonetheless very effective.   
  
Midorima straightens shirt, pushes up his glasses, crosses his arms, and frowns. “Well?”  
  
“I,” says Akashi, looking up at Midorima. “I.”  
  
“Out with it,” says Midorima. “Or you know what’s coming.”  
  
“I,” Akashi stutters again, voice very small, and the power surges through Midorima’s veins.  
  
“I thought you knew better than that, Seijuurou,” Midorima says, icing his voice in contempt. “That’s ten more, whatever you did.”  
  
“I wore my shoes into the house.”  
  
Midorima clicks his tongue. “I know you know better than that, Seijuurou. But perhaps I haven’t reinforced this lesson well enough. Take off your pants.”  
  
(They’d tried this with Akashi’s pants pulled down or all the way on, and there’s nothing quite like this, Akashi half-naked to Midorima’s fully-clothed, the power tilted even more off-balance.) Akashi pulls down his pants, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and then his underwear.   
  
“Turn around,” says Midorima.  
  
He always likes to get a good look at Akashi’s ass first, how pale and soft it always looks before, unmarked and plush and perfectly-formed, get a good idea of how it’s going to feel under his fingers. Midorima shivers; Akashi doesn’t need to see that, doesn’t need the charade to break. Midorima feels as if his voice is going to shake; he takes a few breaths.   
  
“Come here. Over my knee.”  
  
Akashi obeys, demure; he lays his body across Midorima’s legs, head on the other couch cushion.   
  
“That’s ten for not speaking when spoken to, and twenty more for the shoes,” says Midorima. “Did you track any dirt?”  
  
Akashi shakes his head.  
  
“If I find out you’re lying,” Midorima says, but it’s only a threat (left to Akashi’s imagination, and he almost jerks his hips against Midorima’s thigh; it’s only Midorima clasping his shoulder as a warning that stops him).  
  
“You’ve been naughty, Seijuurou,” says Midorima. “I hope you’ll learn this time.”  
  
And then his hand comes down on Seijuurou’s ass with a smack, a meeting of flesh against impossibly soft flesh. Midorima admires the red handprint for just a second, but he’s not going to let it fade (and the thought, now that it’s here and now, of landing another blow on Akashi’s ass spurs him on). Again he brings his hand down, again. On the fifth, Akashi whimpers; on the sixth Midorima can feel Akashi’s cock begin to stiffen. Again, his hand comes down; Akashi begins to moan, loud and lewd, moreso with each slap, and Midorima’s own cock is straining in his pants.   
  
“You’re learning your lesson well,” says Midorima, and then without warning striking twice in a row.   
  
Akashi moans louder, thrashing his legs; a thrill unfurls inside Midorima, adding to the building heat in his stomach. He’s making Akashi so undone, so out-of-control; they’re halfway there and he’s this way. At twenty, Midorima slows down; if they keep it up he’s going to come before they get to thirty, or Akashi will.  
  
But Akashi’s good; a few breaths and they’re back at it, careful and measured this time. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, Midorima feels like he’s about to burst; his hand is almost shaking at the thirtieth, and Akashi bucks his hips hard, wriggling his legs.  
  
“I’m—I haven’t—” he gasps.  
  
Midorima slaps his ass again, a bonus, and this time Akashi comes, absolutely ruining Midorima’s pants. Midorima slides a hand down his pants to his own cock and tugs himself off; he doesn’t have very far to go.

* * *

5\. praise or humiliation

Shintarou lies stretched out on the bed, awaiting his verdict. It’s as if he has something to fear, some little insignificant issue. All of that doesn’t matter, though, because Shintarou is brilliant, smart and kind and beautiful (so beautiful, what a face, what a voice, what a body).  
  
“You’re such a good boy, Shintarou,” says Seijuurou, leaning in to kiss him on the forehead. “I’m going to make you feel good.”  
  
Shintarou nods, gazing up almost awestruck at Seijuurou, that Seijuurou’s giving him this kind of attention (still this much, after this long; it’s still so flattering). Seijuurou rubs Shintarou’s belly through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.  
  
“Go on, you can make noise if you want to.”  
  
Shintarou whimpers under Seijuurou’s next pass, soft and light brushes of his fingers.   
  
“You sound so good, Shintarou, so good for me. You deserve to feel so good.”  
  
Shintarou nods, whimpers again. Akashi moves a hand under Shintarou’s shirt, never breaking eye contact, pushing up the fabric to look at Shintarou’s abs, his chest, to draw a circle around each nipple with his thumb and relish in the way Shintarou’s body shudders, how pink and flushed his face is getting.   
  
“Does this feel good?”  
  
“Yes,” Shintarou breathes. “Yes.”  
  
Seijuurou brushes his fingers across the waistband of Shintarou’s sweatpants, dipping underneath; Shintarou sighs so sweetly. He looks so pretty with his hair all messed up from throwing his head back, face and neck more red than pink already. He wants to see Shintarou’s cock tenting his pants before he touches, wants to take this slow and give Shintarou only the best. He rubs Shintarou’s stomach again, keeping their eyes locked. Shintarou’s breathing is heavier, ragged; he’s spreading his legs and there it is. He’s just starting to get stiff.   
  
“Does your cock feel good?” says Seijuurou. “Do you want me to touch it?”  
  
“Please,” Shintarou whispers, the word getting stuck on a syllable on his tongue.   
  
“Of course,” says Seijuurou. “You’ve been so good, so patient today, Shintarou.”  
  
He slides his hands in, under the sweatpants and underwear, to grip Shintarou’s cock, brush a finger over the head. It feels good, so hard and hot just for him; Shintarou moans again, throwing a hand over his face.  
  
“You can look,” Seijuurou says. “Be proud, Shintarou. You look so beautiful like this.”  
  
He starts to move his hand; Shintarou throws his other arm over his face. If he wants to hide, well—this is about what he feels comfortable, not what Seijuurou wants to see. And either way, he’s been a very good boy.

* * *

6\. bondage

Midorima knows how to bind with tape, tight and safe. He’s been doing it since he was nearly thirteen, practicing with rolls that ended up undone and wasted, filling the trash can with a tangled white mess, the sloppy sacrifice that had led to a perfect wrap he can do in his sleep (his sister, morbid as she is, has suggested that perhaps when he dies, he will rise once more in the crematorium just so that he goes in with fresh bandages). And it’s a transferrable skill; as an EMT he binds wounds tightly and right now, well.  
  
Taping Akashi’s wrists, lithe and slim and birdlike as they are, together behind his back, requires more tape and more effort than a simple covering of his fingers or staunching of blood. For one, Akashi is putting up the illusion of a struggle, something he intends to forfeit but which Midorima has to earn. The price could perhaps be considered small, and, while it’s something Midorima wants on his own, a perfect binding with no wasted tape, it’s not trivial like this.   
  
“If you give in,” says Midorima, lowering his voice. “It might be better for you.”  
  
(It’s the kind of thing Akashi wants to hear, the kind of thing that Midorima had felt ridiculous saying the first time, but now makes him feel in control, slipping back into a good routine he’s glad they keep.)  
  
“I don’t give in,” says Akashi.  
  
His eyes are glittering, fierce, as always; he’s a wildcat in protest of its prison, waiting for an opportune moment and not even bothering to throw himself against the bars and gnash his teeth. The slick smack of the tape, giving way from itself into the air, echoes against the walls (of course Akashi can afford the best acoustics).  
  
“Good,” says Midorima.   
  
He looks into Akashi’s eyes; Akashi’s not falling for it. Midorima leans in closer; he can see the way Akashi’s eyes (glittering, beautiful, red like the brake lights on a car skidding down a rain-slicked street) widen, perhaps a millimeter, enough for Midorima to be sure it’s real.  
  
“Good,” he says again.  
  
His fingers dig into the skin of Akashi’s wrist; Akashi twists right into the tape that forms a helix around them; his hands are already trying to pull at the end but Midorima’s got him now, twisting the other half of the ladder down and filling in the gaps, sealing the spaces of empty skin. Akashi pulls, but the tape does not give; he claws but it does not come loose; he wriggles but Midorima does not lose precision, and Akashi’s right where they both want him to be.


	33. nijihimu, questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11644393#cmt11644393)
> 
> 3/9

1\. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?

Shuuzou cannot carry much with him when he departs to join his family. He takes some clothes, some spellbooks, enough food and money to offset the unpleasantness of the journey, and the magic mirror. It’s not his favorite thing, but he’s heard too much about its dangers to leave it among the other young nobles (Kubota and Akashi had both made valiant cases for keeping it themselves, but Shuuzou doesn’t want to make that kind of mistake). He’s heard of its power going to waste, the vain and the greedy asking it once a minute for their status, doing everything they can to remain the most beautiful, killing and maiming and rending their own lands.  
  
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”  
  
“I’m in your hand,” says the mirror.  
  
Shuuzou sighs. He could have chosen a better companion, he supposes.  
  
“Mirror, mirror, in my hand, who’s the fairest in the land?”  
  
“Good one,” says the mirror, as the surface with Shuuzou’s face dissolves to reveal, once again, Kise Ryouta.   
  
Shuuzou stuffs the mirror in his pocket of his cloak. Whatever could have, might have (probably wouldn’t have) happened with Kise (probably nothing at this point) it doesn’t matter. He’s leaving all of it behind him.  
  
The mirror’s voice is muffled from his pocket. “You’d better not have taken me just so you can score a hot date.”  
  
Shuuzou snorts. He has no plans of using the mirror for anything other than idle curiosity. Asking a beautiful person to hang around him while he has the mirror is begging for trouble, anyway (they’ll see; they’ll get caught in it; that’s how all of the stories go).  
  
-  
  
Shuuzou crosses the border at noon on the fourth day. He’s almost to the ocean; he can smell the salt and rust and wet wood in the air. He’s already feeling a little bit better about being here, a little bit like it could be home someday. The map his parents had given him is tattered but still legible; he can still make out the way to where they’re staying. It’s a straight shot from here, but Shuuzou wants to see the ocean first. He takes a right turn on the way, past some bushes, and pulls out the mirror just for kicks.  
  
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”  
  
“Whatever,” says the mirror (and Shuuzou is quite pleased that he’s won this round).  
  
The reflection dissolves; in its place is the back of someone’s head, dark hair and fair skin (odd for a place with weather like this). Shuuzou waits, and then the person turns around and fuck, Shuuzou has never seen anyone quite like this. There’s a sharpness to his gaze, only one eye visible, as if he knows he’s being watched, as if he’s looking straight back at Shuuzou from the back of the mirror. His lips are slightly parted; there’s a hint of danger on his face, and all of Shuuzou’s inner thoughts are screaming that this is a bad fucking idea, put the mirror away NOW Shuuzou.  
  
“Okay,” says Shuuzou, and puts the mirror away.  
  
-  
  
It almost feels as if he’d conjured Tatsuya up from the image in the mirror, because he looks even more perfect in real life. There is something cold about him, something that makes Shuuzou think that behind his face is a locked gate, and behind that another one. There is no magic in that observation, only speculation.  
  
It’s even more ridiculously perfect when they win the fight, Tatsuya’s streamlined water-magic passing through Shuuzou’s bent and focused light, stinging the assailants and making them run for the hills. Shuuzou picks up his satchel, rifling through the pockets; the mirror’s there and he takes it out. And then he looks at Tatsuya.  
  
“Is that one of those beauty mirrors?” says Tatsuya.  
  
“Yeah,” says Shuuzou, exhaling.   
  
“Interesting,” says Tatsuya.  
  
“You want—” Shuuzou offers before he can stop himself (why he should give Tatsuya that choice he doesn’t know; the mirror hisses quietly in his hand).  
  
Tatsuya shakes his head. “I’d rather not know.”

* * *

2\. Do you trust me?

“Do you trust me?”  
  
Shuu’s voice is quiet and rough like the choppy surf from far away, like the motions of his thumbs across the heels of Tatsuya’s hand. His gaze is steady, unwavering, meeting Tatsuya’s, and Tatsuya’s torn between trying to memorize every bit of this and knowing it’s only going to be more painful when he leaves and knowing that he’s going to forget too much anyway like a faulty cassette tape tangled and scrambled and worn down by the machine.  
  
Shuu is still waiting for an answer, patient and steady, an anchored ship. The question is simple on the surface, but even a fraction of an inch below it starts to get murky and complex, difficult to navigate. Tatsuya trusts Shuu’s instincts; he trusts Shuu’s sincerity right now (as much as it drives him into a corner). The future is unknown; Shuu may have the right intentions now but Tatsuya doesn’t want to tie him down to a relationship with someone an ocean away when he’s young and attractive and there are plenty of people out there he could take a chance on (plenty of people more worth it than Tatsuya, if it comes down to that). And Shuu doesn’t know (though he suspects, at least, that there’s something) what’s waiting for Tatsuya over in Japan, the face of his own inadequacy, something that may find him returning in a worse place than he started. Tatsuya trusts Shuu more than he trusts himself, but he can’t trust the world around them or the other people in it.  
  
“Yes,” Tatsuya says. “I trust you.”  
  
“Then listen when I say I want to be with you. Even if I’m here and you’re in Akita for however long, I don’t want to give up on us.”  
  
There’s nothing accusatory in his tone but Tatsuya feels it anyway, cutting him from the inside out. He’s no quitter; Shuu hadn’t meant that he is, but it’s already so hard to let go. It’s easier to loosen his grip before it tightens around Shuu and stunts him or holds him back. But maybe it’s already too late.   
  
Tatsuya remembers Alex, telling him and Taiga that they have to take risks and that’s where the best rewards come in, farther shots and drives through bodies; he sees Taiga take that to heart and get up and try to dunk once and then again; he feels the exhaustion in his body as he takes the opposite approach, calculating distance and depth and shot after shot after shot, trying to minimize the risk at the source. Maybe it’s the wrong way around, but at this point does he still have time to change?  
  
He nods his head, waits for his body to react, his heart to thud or his mind to tell him that this is a mistake, that Shuu’s going to end up hating and resenting him, that the next time he’ll see Shuu his face won’t be so tender. But Shuu kisses him before he can really start to think any of it.

* * *

3\. Why is the rum gone?

The world is a pleasant mumble around Shuuzou, the pulse of the thumping bass still coming up through the soles of his sneakers (landing from a dunk is just fine, but they were never made to handle this kind of music) but everything else a blur, snatches of conversations fading in and out like a car radio with shitty reception when he gets too far off the highway. Maybe he shouldn’t have had a third rum-and-rum (cheap white rum and cheap coconut rum, as these things go not a terrible combination) but he’s going to finish it, damn it. Basketball season's over and they still have a couple of weeks until finals and it’s Thursday night and Shuuzou doesn’t have any Friday classes. He can get as dead drunk as he wants to (not that he’s that wasted, just a little tipsy and tired) and he doesn’t have to be totally responsible right now. With that in mind, he’s going to chug the rest of his drink and call it a night, grope Tatsuya until he calls them a cab or something. Shuuzou reaches over, but his hand only hits air. He looks at the end table. There’s a red cup on the other side of the lamp; he reaches over to check it and it’s got some kind of punch in it.  
  
Shuuzou wrinkles his nose. He grasps the arm of the couch for balance as he stands, and okay, maybe he’s a little bit drunker than he’d thought. The sound is magnified; the vertigo hits him like a ball off the backboard and he almost stumbles.  
  
“Easy.”  
  
It’s Tatsuya; Shuuzou reaches for him and clings to his forearms, closing his eyes. “Why is the rum gone?”  
  
It comes out like a whine, petulant and childish, too loud; Shuuzou doesn’t really care. He’s thirsty and he was going to drink that.  
  
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” says Tatsuya. “We do have to leave before they kick us out.”  
  
“We’re basketball players; they don’t kick us out of frat parties.”  
  
Tatsuya pats Shuuzou’s cheek; Shuuzou slips Tatsuya’s other hand in his and attempts to lock their fingers together. He’s so fucking tired right now.  
  
“Shuu,” says Tatsuya, voice trailing off into a sigh.  
  
How much has Tatsuya had? It never shows on his face; it never gets him drowsy or unaware even when he drinks Shuuzou under the table. But right now he’s holding Shuuzou’s hand in the middle of a frat house just as Shuuzou’s seat is taken over by a girl trying to pull off her companion’s pants and people are chanting for someone to chug somewhere behind them. The bass drops; Shuuzou feels it in his feet all over again.  
  
“Let’s go home,” Shuuzou says.  
  
“Okay,” says Tatsuya, already starting to tug Shuuzou through the crowd to the stairs.


	34. kagahimu clothes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11622121#cmt11622121)
> 
> 6/9

1\. Political Slogan

“Are you sure this is okay?” says Taiga, looking down at his shirt.  
  
The overly-recognizable (even when upside-down) blocks of color that make up Barack Obama’s face look back; on the bottom the reverse of the word “HOPE” blares.   
  
“It’s a 2000s party,” says Tatsuya. “Why? You want to wear my Fisher jersey?”  
  
Taiga scowls; he could say something about how the Lakers suck now and the Clippers are better (after having had to wait his entire childhood while the Lakers kept getting rings and Tatsuya’s favorites kept dominating SportsCenter every day, even on the ones they weren’t even playing). But he looks back down at the shirt again.  
  
“It’s supposed to be nostalgia,” says Tatsuya.  
  
“Even politically?”  
  
“That’s the clearest way to define eras.”  
  
Taiga shrugs. It just seems kind of weird, injecting something frivolous with a serious topic. On the other hand, he’d gotten so sick of this stupid pop-art back in 2008 (and all of the imitators and memes that had followed) but looking at it now, he is a little bit nostalgic for lighter things, cats captioned with bad grammar and flip phones that could fit in a shirt pocket and skate shoes and playing basketball with Tatsuya, back when he’d been the one chasing and it had seemed almost impossible to comprehend catching up. He looks back at Tatsuya, rummaging in the back of his drawer before pulling out a handful of Livestrong bracelets (God, Taiga can’t believe he’d kept those; their popularity had already been plummeting by the time Taiga came to LA).   
  
And then Tatsuya turns, offering him a bracelet with a smile, but the fabric of his basketball jersey strains under the motion (it’s way too small for him; Taiga’s surprised he can still get it on at all and he knows even if he’d agreed to wear it he’d never be able to push it down his own torso without tearing it). It’s so tight; there is nothing under there Taiga hasn’t seen so many times before but he can’t help imagining it anyway. He inhales; Tatsuya looks at him in amusement.  
  
“Want a bracelet?”  
  
“No,” says Taiga (he can feel his face burning up).  
  
“Are you sure?” says Tatsuya, stepping a little bit closer. “I’ll put it on for you.”  
  
Taiga swallows down air. The party doesn’t start for another half an hour; they don’t have to be there early. There’s plenty of time to want each other like they’re horny teenagers all over again (but this time they’re actually together and being with Tatsuya doesn’t seem like something Taiga should laugh at himself for). After all, that’s in the spirit of the era. His hands are already sliding up in what little space there is between Tatsuya’s skin and the jersey; Tatsuya laughs into the kiss and Taiga doesn’t need to be nostalgic anymore.

* * *

2\. 3-piece Suit

It’s fucking humid. Even for New York, and even for August, it’s fucking humid. The weight of the heat is an exhausting burden, stifling Tatsuya down; there’s sweat coming out of pores he didn’t even know he had until now and he feels like he’s slowly going to drown in it if he doesn’t suffocate in the stale air first. It doesn’t help that he’s wearing a three-piece suit; it helps even less that Taiga’s wearing one, too.  
  
Even if he could chant the amount of sponsorship money they’re being thrown for this PR appearance, it might not be worth it. Tatsuya exhales; they’re halfway through the ten-block walk from his apartment to the venue but he’d rather hail a cab and go the rest of the way if they can, even if the shitty midtown traffic will make it take four times as long (it’ll feel like less when they’re in the air conditioning). Taiga wipes his own brow again; his bangs are coming loose from where they’re gelled back. Tatsuya steps to the edge of the block and sticks out his hand.   
  
It takes what feels like ten minutes (but is probably closer to thirty seconds) for an unoccupied cab to come along; Tatsuya gives the cross streets and slumps back against the seat. Taiga’s right next to him; his body heat sticks out in the meat-locker cold of the taxi but Tatsuya’s so refreshed he barely minds.   
  
“You okay? You need some water?” says Taiga.  
  
“I’m good. I’m good.”  
  
Taiga’s hand reaches for his; the late afternoon half-light paints a stripe of gold across their linked fingers where the sun shines between two buildings in the distance. The sweat makes skin slide on skin, another kind of heat, less oppressive and much more comfortable. Taiga’s other hand reaches out and clamps down on Tatsuya’s thigh. His palms are so big; his fingers are so long; it’s so easy for him to brush the seam on the inside of Tatsuya’s suit pants almost nonchalantly and Tatsuya reaches up to loosen his tie and fiddle with the top button on his vest. The cabbie turns up the radio; it’s the Spanish broadcast of the Yankees game. Tatsuya closes his eyes, listening to the rhythm of the words, in large part outside the small amount of Spanish he knows, too many and too fast to get stuck on figuring out how to translate one or another. Taiga’s finger is rubbing up, up; the friction he’s creating is sparking like the tip of a lighter under each touch. Tatsuya glances out the window; he thinks they’re in the middle of the block after where they started. It’s too far from either end to see the street signs. The driver’s face is pointed forward, what of it Tatsuya can see from this side of the divider. He scoots closer to Taiga, bumping against his thigh. This time Taiga gasps; his fingers stutter against Tatsuya’s leg. Tatsuya smiles. (He always wins this kind of game—but then, don’t they both?)

* * *

3\. Wearing Sunglasses Indoors

Tatsuya decides to do the eye surgery in the offseason, regardless of its consequences. They never talk about it, and Taiga never knows how to ask, but he’s always wondered what Tatsuya would do to get some use of his left eye back. Apparently, it’s this surgery, though he asks, the night before, if it’s the right decision.  
  
“If it works, I’m going to have to learn how to see again,” Tatsuya says. “I’m so used to not having depth perception, will I—basketball.”  
  
He bites his lip, and Taiga kisses his cheek, drawing him closer under the covers.  
  
“You want to see again, right?”  
  
Tatsuya nods.   
  
“Tatsuya, if anyone can learn this, it’s you. It’ll take a while, but the team’s behind you. I’m behind you; it doesn’t matter if you use one eye or two or none or five hundred.”  
  
“I know,” says Tatsuya, softly, and Taiga knows where he’s coming from, how hard he’s had to fight to get where he is, how he stands on the precipice of losing it by trying to restore an ability he’d lost when he was just a kid, something he barely remembers having.   
  
There are no easy answers, but Tatsuya steadies his resolve and goes through with it (after all, it might not work in the first place). He sleeps the surgery off in the hospital; they let him go home the next day, Taiga driving him. He’s wearing two pairs of dark sunglasses and a hat, like an extra-strong concussion protocol to avoid the LA sun in his eyes, ducking his head and letting Taiga put an arm around him and hold him closer, guide him forward.  
  
It takes about half a day for Tatsuya to become amused with wearing sunglasses in the house, propping his feet on the coffee table and drinking lemonade made with the questionable mix in the back of the pantry.   
  
“I’m cool,” he says, as if he’s trying to put Taiga at ease.  
  
Taiga kisses his forehead and cuddles closer; Tatsuya offers him a sip of lemonade.  
  
“I’m not going to break, you know,” he says.  
  
“I know,” says Taiga, “But.”  
  
Tatsuya’s arm is around his waist, stroking his hip, warm. Taiga can see that under the glasses, both of his eyes are closed (his bangs are pinned back, and Taiga wonders—if he can see, will he change his hairstyle, or will he let it remain, avoiding the slightly-unnerving asymmetry of the long-sightless eye and looking out through a curtain of hair?) and he’s relaxed, that no matter how his eye is doing he’s okay with it.  
  
He can tell when Tatsuya’s pretending, slightly on edge; this isn’t one of these times (he’d complain about boredom, being unable to watch TV or play basketball, distract from his real negative feelings and Taiga would always let him). Maybe this will change when he starts playing again; maybe this will change when the doctors start pushing at him and asking too many questions.  
  
“You do look pretty cool,” Taiga says.  
  
Tatsuya smiles, just a twitch of his lips, but it’s enough.

* * *

4\. Cutoff Shorts

  
Taiga cuts his old jeans off after the rip at the knee tears across from seam to seam. Tatsuya raises his eyebrows, but Taiga doesn’t see anything wrong with it (people make fun of denim shorts, but they’re comfy as fuck, thanks very much, and Taiga knows how to work them with the right shirt and accessories).   
  
He doesn’t hem them, and with every wash they get a little bit shorter, thread sliding off the open ends, getting his toes caught until he tears them off; they inch up his thighs and start edging toward inappropriate territory, but they’re still good to wear around the house.  
  
“You might as well just go all the way now,” Tatsuya says one day, very not-subtly checking out Taiga’s ass (the fabric’s getting worn there, too; the color’s fading, but Taiga knows Tatsuya’s never found any issue with the way they fit him around the back).  
  
“What?” says Taiga.  
  
“Cut them into booty shorts.”  
  
Tatsuya says it so matter-of-factly that Taiga almost chokes. “What?”  
  
“They’re getting shorter,” says Tatsuya. “Though I have to admit I get a little more fond every time they do. I like your thighs; I like your ass. If it’s just the two of us, why don’t you show them off?”  
  
He’s leaning over the kitchen table, fake-leering; Taiga rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well.”  
  
“Well?” Tatsuya prompts.   
  
“You’re just going to make me take them off again,” says Taiga (it’s a stupid complaint, but it’s all he’s got left).  
  
Tatsuya pats his cheek. “I’ll only pull them down to your knees when I fuck you in them; how’s that?”  
  
“Sounds pretty good,” says Taiga, imagining it now, the way Tatsuya’s already looking at him, pupil a little bit wider still, kissing him with hunger on his lips.  
  
Taiga leans over and kisses Tatsuya now, across the table where he knows Tatsuya can’t reach his ass to pinch it, and—he hadn’t thought this plan through at all. Shit. He breaks the kiss.  
  
“Hold on a sec.”  
  
Tatsuya laughs as Taiga comes back around, cups Tatsuya’s face in his hands, kisses him harder, leaning in. Tatsuya makes him wait a little bit (not nice, as Taiga grumbles against Tatsuya’s lips and he smiles) but he does pinch Taiga’s ass through one pocket and then reach down to thumb the skin of Taiga’s thigh right below the current shitty excuse for a hemline.   
  
Tatsuya’s right; it needs to be shorter like five seconds ago.

* * *

5\. Sequins/Glitter

Tatsuya’s dragged him to frat parties on both of their campuses (how he knows all the brothers from all the frats at Taiga’s school Taiga doesn’t know, especially because he’s never even met most of them before a hasty introduction as Tatsuya drags them over to the drinks and gets them both some sort of overly-sweet cocktails and they drink until they find a dark corner to press against each other and make it look like an accident and maybe, Taiga thinks, they could just do this at home) and house parties in overpacked off-campus houses, like the ones they’d been to in high school only no danger of parents and a few more drugs they’re not allowed to have because of the NCAA rules. But this rave, at some 18+ club downtown, is definitely something else.  
  
For one, there’s giltter everywhere; it’s coating Taiga's skin and he's not sure he’s ever going to be able to wash it off; it’s a good thing Tatsuya had told him to dress like trash because these clothes are unsalvageable, from the glitter and the sweat from the unforgiving stuffiness of the place. Taiga’s pretty sure there’s glitter in his hair, stuck between his teeth, on his tongue; he probably swallows some when he takes a jello shot Tatsuya hands him (somehow coaxed out of a bartender even though the black Xs drawn on his hands are so prominent above the glowsticks on his wrists).   
  
And Tatsuya himself practically glows, tossing back jello shots, his shorts a little too small for him but clinging in all the right places, getting appreciative nods from people walking by, and fuck it. Taiga grabs him around the waist, watching his eye get a little wider, the glitter caught on his eyelashes flash against the low lighting, the sparkles in his hair glint and his pale, sweaty skin illuminate the room.  
  
Maybe Taiga’s a little drunk already; maybe these shots were made from, like, vodka concentrate or something. But Tatsuya doesn’t complain when Taiga pushes his tongue into his mouth, tasting the bitterness of the alcohol in Tatsuya’s mouth, the sweet jello and whipped cream, the texture of the glitter.   
  
“You’re so fucking,” Taiga starts, but he forgets where that thought is going; Tatsuya’s fingers are knotted in Taiga’s hair, pressing at his scalp, and the whole fucking club could catch fire right about now and Taiga wouldn’t give a shit.

* * *

6\. Piercings

It’s been eight and a half weeks since they’ve seen each other, too long for Tatsuya not to make up an excuse to duck out of the locker room early and meet Taiga halfway to the visitors’ side, ducking into a musty corner that’s probably still insulated with asbestos it’s so deep beneath the arena. Crossing this distance feels like he’s crossing the distance between New York and Chicago all over again, but he’s finally out of the airport, finally past baggage, finally out of the gate with nothing remaining between him and Taiga. He inhales Taiga’s clean scent, grasping the sides of his mostly-buttoned shirt, but before he leans up for the kiss he pulls back—he needs to get a look up close at Taiga’s new accessories.   
  
He’s seen them on TV; he’d seen the earrings in person across the court, of course; he’d seen the flashes of gold when they’d exchanged a quick hug after the game, but there wasn’t room to take a proper look, not really. Tatsuya never would have thought Taiga would actually do it (he’s talked about it in passing once or twice) but some sort of team bonding activity had resulted in a sheepish phone call to Tatsuya afterwards and a nice story to tell the press about chemistry and, well, these.  
  
“They look good,” says Tatsuya.  
  
“Oh,” says Taiga, reaching up to touch one (it’s been a few weeks, Tatsuya supposes; the initial phase has worn off for everyone but him and he feels a little irritated the way he always does when the distance pops up between them, reminding them of its existence even when it’s not there).   
  
Tatsuya raises his hand. “Can I?”  
  
Taiga nods, closing his eyes and tilting his head in before Tatsuya’s fingers brush his earlobe and touch against the cool metal. Taiga’s breath catches like a snag on fingernails when Tatsuya’s hand begins to wander up around the perimeter of his ear, drift down the back to fiddle with the other side of the earring, trace a circle around the piercing.  
  
“Tatsuya...not here…”  
  
It is a terrible idea (though Tatsuya’s had many worse ones); Taiga’s right. They could get caught or end up with dust and plaster all over their good clothes and no way to disguise it. He skims his fingers down the side of Taiga’s neck and bring them away again; Taiga makes a sound a little like a sigh.   
  
Tatsuya leans up then, just as he’s opening his eyes, finally giving him that much-delayed kiss—it’s well worth the wait.


	35. tropey aokise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11663337#cmt11663337)
> 
> 6/9

1\. Insecurity

  
Dating Kise is great. Aomine knows he’s a lucky guy; he knows how many people would stand in line just to touch Kise (weird and fucking freaky as that is; they don’t even know him, only the carefully-curated social-media persona that isn’t Kise at all, just another facsimile of multiple someone elses) and he knows how many people who know him are still sometimes taken aback by how gorgeous he is. Which, looks don’t come before personality; Aomine’s attraction to Kise had come sudden and all at once, the way he looks and the way he plays and the way he acts most of all, the stupid fun they have together. And it’s even more fun now that they’re together in that sense, now that Aomine gets to hold his hand and kiss him and touch him and fuck him and go on stupid dates, and maybe he’s just a little in love by now.  
  
But Kise’s said nothing of the sort on his part. He’ll initiate; he’ll call Aomine up when he gets off work or done with practice to ask him on a date; he’ll invite himself over to Aomine’s house; he’ll have the buttons on Aomine’s shirt all undone before Aomine can think concretely that he wants to kiss Kise. He doesn’t feel unwanted, unpursued; he feels desired. He feels great.  
  
And maybe it’s because he feels so great that the doubt is pulling on his mind like a small fish biting at the bait at the end of his fishing rod, nibbling away and tugging again and again. Kise could be with anyone; Kise could have anyone. Why Aomine? Is it some latent hero-worship that’s going to disappear when Kise (eventually) equals him on the court, some due to his past, some mistake of platonic mutual admiration for more? It’s not like Aomine’s inherently more flawed than the average person, but Kise needs, deserves, above-average and he can get it without trying. It’s not like Aomine’s not above average himself, but how far above? Where does basketball rank? Where does his personality rank?  
  
It’s not numerical and logical; Aomine knows that (yeah, he’s fallen pretty hard for Kise, but Kise can be annoying as hell and play too far into pretending to be some dumb pretty boy, and that’s not much of a serious flaw but it’s still there). Sometimes he thinks he might be better-suited to someone who’s as stuck to basketball as he is, deep within the web, but—isn’t that Kise by now? Maybe the web is different, prettier, but there he is, another fly in the trap. Aomine doesn’t like feeling this way, the crawling under his feet, the questions in his mind of when Kise’s going to leave him. It’s stupid; it’s too stupid to talk about with Kise right now, but just stupid enough that it sticks in his mind like a nettle for now.

* * *

2\. Leaving Marks

Aomine’s left his mark on Kise; to him at least it’s always visible, a subtle tattoo or a scar that stands out when his skin darkens in the summer, glaring white against his back. It’s not just basketball; it’s too easy to simplify it to that, a distorted and pixelated picture, airbrushed out of recognition, Kise’s own face on a billboard above the twelfth story when he’s looking up from the ground. It’s so much more. He doesn’t have to think to copy Aomine; he goes into it automatically, the way Aomine had once played and the way he still does, both flashing through, picked up consciously and not, a glaring signal that once, for him, Aomine’s basketball was the only basketball there was.  
  
That’s why it’s so satisfying to leave a physical mark on Aomine (or, more accurately, one of the reasons; some of them aren’t so deep and personal). Sometimes they’ll be making out, casual and sweaty after a one-on-one, Aomine’s shirt sticking to his skin until Kise pulls back the neckline with his teeth, pressing a kiss to the top of Aomine’s shoulder and then sinking into a bite. The sounds Aomine makes are less over-the-top and more genuine reaction, even the tenth time Kise does it, even the hundredth. Kise waits, holds it deep; he wants a bruise to bloom up around the unmistakable dents even after they’ve faded, something that says Aomine is his when his jersey slips a little because he always likes to wear it loose and someone will know (if the whole Touou locker room doesn’t already, and even then). Over in Kanagawa, Kise will jam in a dunk, Aomine’s mark radiating off his own body; his on Aomine will be equally visible in the middle of the city.  
  
Sometimes Kise will leave a bite less obvious, one that fades quicker and is far less discernible but still leaves something, the same smudges on the way he handles a ball, the way he stands. It’s a reminder that he’s still a little angry about Teikou (even though it had been his fault, too) and a nod to the indiscernible, intangible things; Aomine had taught him to love basketball until it had hurt like sinking his teeth into concentrated sugar and Aomine had taught him that this kind of love is a measure of worth, of worthiness, and that much Kise’s not sure he believes is universal. But with Aomine all of it’s conflated, messy, difficult to follow and impossible to untangle; he’s frustrating and basketball is frustrating and that’s why, unlike everything else, it hadn’t glanced off of Kise’s skin like light off a mirror. And Kise marks him for that, too.

* * *

3\. Mutual Longing

Kise’s like a shot of adrenaline plunged straight into Aomine’s veins, shaking him to the core the way he plays, always ready for more (another one-on-one, another free-throw contest, another time for them to try and out-dunk one another until they’re leaning against the base of the hoop, breath ragged with exhaustion and laughter). Kise pushes, like a dog yapping at his heels and like an overzealous driver of Aomine as a car, and, well. Aomine wouldn’t mind if Kise drove his car, so to speak, and it’s a bit of a problem.  
  
It’s not like Aomine’s getting hard playing basketball with Kise (please, what is he, twelve?) and it’s not like he’s thinking too much about being with Kise out of the abstract. It’s not even that there are obvious barriers he can box himself out with. Yeah, Kise’s had girlfriends, Aomine still thinks a lot about Mai-chan (she is, for many reasons, a safer pick for jerking off to and that doesn’t make it unsatisfying). Yeah, even if Kise’s into guys, there are better picks for him (like someone who lives nearer or who’s going to follow him off into his meteoric future, as a basketball star or a model or a pilot or all three). But Kise’s the one who had confided in him, softly under his breath at joint training camp, that when he was a kid he’d always thought he’d be a pilot and aeronautical engineering is hard but he thinks he can put in the work if none of this pans out. Kise’s the one who looks back to him, passing him in skill so gradually but dragging him alongside. Kise’s the one who comes out to Tokyo for just this, just them, not Kuroko or Kasamatsu or Midorima or even Satsuki. It’s enough for him to maybe read too much into and too much for him to cut off his own hopes.   
  
And there are times when he’s pretending to be asleep and he’s pretty sure Kise knows he’s faking, but Kise looks at him softly, no competition or idolization or basketball in his eyes, and it’s hard for Aomine to keep his breathing steady, balance the thin layer of plausible deniability.  
  
He’s sick of waiting; either way it’s better to know.  
  
“Hey, Kise,” he says.  
  
Kise looks up from his phone; his face is eager. “Aominecchi?”  
  
“What would you do if I kissed you?”  
  
Kise’s face freezes; Aomine toes the ground.  
  
“Try it and see,” says Kise.  
  
Fucking tease. (At least he kisses back.)

* * *

4\. Future Fic

It’s Kise’s other ankle that goes first. He’s twenty-eight, supposedly about to hit his prime, and his ankle comes out from under him and they can put it back together with as many pins and stitches and staples as they want but he’s not coming back from it the way he was. Aomine wants to go back in time and punch Haizaki even harder even though he’s got nothing directly to do about this and would pretend not to care, but he settles for lifting weights until he’s light-headed and the trainers kick him out and tell him to take a cab home.  
  
He waits outside; it’s late December but warm enough to rain, soak into the sweat on his skin and the rapidly-appearing goosebumps. He pulls out his phone and flips the weather app over from Cleveland to Oakland; it’s warmer there, cloudy and the sun hasn’t yet set. Aomine opens his and Kise’s SMS thread and then closes it again. What the hell’s he going to say?  
  
He wants to punch Haizaki, sure; he wants to punch the floor of the Wells Fargo Center, the faulty section of the boards where Kise had landed, even if it means breaking his fist open and ending up on IR, because he doesn’t know how the fuck he’s going to play like this, right now, when there’s no Kise waiting for him at the other end of the bracket, when there’s no way they’re going to fulfill the same promise they try to make every year. He doesn’t want to punch Kise but he wants to yell at him about keeping promises and not fucking up, even though it’s not Kise’s fault his body had betrayed him (and thinking of everything he’d been doing, every heinously-overtaxing skill basketball bodies can do, combined, for more than ten years, it’s a minor wonder that it hadn’t happened before, but then why now? Why couldn’t it have kept holding up like the fucking miracle it was supposed to be?) and it’s not Kise’s fault he’s so fucking far away.  
  
The cab honks; Aomine blinks. He’d been spacing out; he apologizes to the driver who reassures him that it’s fine, and after all Aomine had brought home those championship rings (and two of them had been against Kise, the right kind of sweet fulfillment he might never get again). Aomine pulls out his phone again; there are no new replies from Kise but everything’s not as complicated as Aomine’s making it seem.  
  
miss you babe  
  
He gets a few heart emojis in return, enough to tell that Kise’s tired.  
  
you doing ok? (And it’s not the right phrasing, but Kise will know.)  
  
-  
  
The Cavs go out to Oakland the next week for the Christmas game; Kise’s on the sidelines in a suit with his cast and boot prominent, needles under Aomine’s feet. He has a shitty game and the Warriors win; Aomine doesn’t even remember the last time they’d lost this badly but it still doesn’t carry any of the weight a shitty loss usually does. He’s dragged down by something else entirely, and it’s probably obvious.  
  
“You’re mad, right?” Kise says afterwards, the car idling in the driveway but neither of them getting out.  
  
“Yeah,” says Aomine (it’s easier than lying).  
  
“You think I’m not?” says Kise.  
  
His voice cracks and Aomine cringes. Of course it’s affecting Kise; of course he’s hurting; of course he’s fucking crushed. Playing without Kise is still playing; even if it sucks it’s better than knowing he’s done and watching Kise keep playing (and doing as shitty of a job as he is right now). He owes Kise an apology, but that’s not what Kise wants in the moment; Aomine reaches over to cup his face (still warm and vibrant in the glow of the dashboard lights).  
  
“I’m mad as hell, but you know I love you?”  
  
“Yes,” says Kise.  
  
“Because I do, so,” says Aomine, and he can think his way through any situation but when it comes to cutting straight to the heart with speech it all gets stuck.  
  
Kise smiles. “Yeah.”  
  
He pulls Aomine in by his tie, and it’s hard to think they won’t get through this, too.

* * *

5\. Secret Relationship

“Hey,” Kise says sometimes, “Maybe we should tell—”  
  
He never finishes, with a name or a collection of names or an anonymous word like _someone_ , even though Kise’s of the opinion that they should tell someone, some random homeless person on the street or the barista at the coffee place he frequents, just to get this off his chest where it’s weighing like a necklace made out of dumbbells. He never finishes the sentence, because Aomine’s mouth turns into a hard line.  
  
“No, we shouldn’t,” he says.  
  
Kise forgets, sometimes, about the tension and the secrecy, alone in Aomine’s bedroom when their hands are up each other’s shirts, down each other’s pants, mouths against skin, and not even that. It feels so good when Aomine looks at him, when Aomine texts him a long report about his day or some confusing metaphor about the view from the Touou roof and Kise has to fight to keep himself from smiling in the middle of a break on set because someone’s going to ask, and Kise doesn’t want to lie about this.  
  
He wants to shout it to the world, to strangers and friends and family, that he’s dating Aomine fucking Daiki, the guy with that shot and that smile (the guy that stupid and funny and ridiculous), the guy who makes him feel like he owns the world sometimes. He doesn’t feel like shouting it when Aomine sits a little farther away on the bus, won’t even hook their pinkies together in the street. He feels like shit, like he knows all too well he shouldn’t let Aomine get away with this, like he should dump his ass or make him start telling the truth.   
  
He doesn’t, of course, because sometimes he’s too much of a fucking coward for his own good. He knows how it's going to end, how Aomine will say he’s met some great girl or now that they’re going into their last year of high school or that this just can’t go on. It’s the inevitable, clear in the end like a wall they’re hurtling toward, burning out on the Formula One track with a busted engine, but the crash-course keeps Kise high and, well. If Aomine’s using him for a temporary diversion, Kise’s going to use him right back, get the most out of him while he still can. All’s fair in love and war, though this is neither.

* * *

6\. Getting Dumped

“It’s not you, Aominecchi,” says Kise. “It’s me.”  
  
Aomine almost believes it. Kise’s got a face that was born to sell you lies, pretty and cat-eyed, pouty little lips and a way of moving that always gets your attention, always refocuses the camera’s depth of field to get him, him, him in the center of attention. It’s vexing sometimes, but when Aomine wants to give it to him he can take it like a champ. Aomine’s fist unfurls against his knee, knuckles brushing the cheap plastic tablecloth.  
  
“You’re breaking up with me,” says Aomine. “In a cafe you don’t like.”  
  
“I don’t want to make sad memories here,” says Kise.  
  
“This is sad for you?”  
  
Kise nods, leaning in; Aomine breathes. God, he is pretty; God, he is captivating—where did this come from? Is it another play for attention? Kise already has so much, just from him; Aomine’s not very experienced at dating but he’d thought it was the right kind of stuff at the time. Kise had responded positively, encouraging. He’s not too polite to say when he doesn’t like something, so why this?   
  
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Aomine says, and his voice almost cracks at the last syllable.  
  
This can’t be happening. He likes Kise; they’ve known each other for years; everything’s been good.  
  
“I’ve been feeling a little different lately, is all,” says Kise. “I want to expand my horizons; I don’t want this to hold either of us back.”  
  
Kise thinks Aomine’s holding him back. Kise wants to break up with him; Kise is breaking up with him right now. Aomine scuffs his heel against the leg of the chair, looking down at his thighs, begging his eyes not to water. Kise reaches across to pat his elbow and Aomine wrenches it away; his chest hurts and his throat hurts and his face hurts and how can Kise possibly understand if this is what he’s doing to Aomine? How could he have held this back for so long, not even bothered to try and make it work?   
  
“I have to go,” says Aomine, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of cash, slapping it on the table without checking if it’s enough, too much (his vision’s too blurry and he’s not going to rub his eyes in front of Kise; he has some pride, what little Kise’s left him with).  
  
“Aominecchi—”  
  
The nickname burns the edges of his ears like a whole matchbox lit; Aomine never wants to hear it again. He’s out of the cafe before remembering he’d left his jacket, but whatever. He’ll cut the loss; being cold doesn’t hurt as much as being alone and too close to crying in the middle of the city, trying to duck his face away so people don’t stare, don’t pity him.


	36. momoriko, various

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11678953#cmt11678953)
> 
> 3/9

1\. Oral Sex

“You’re really something, Riko,” Satsuki murmurs, her fingers grazing the top of Riko’s skirt.  
  
Riko huffs, as if to say that of course she is, but also reserving the right to any and all meanings, which coming from her is more than fair. She’ll never cede the advantage, even when Satsuki’s making her come undone (or just making her come, though Satsuki likes to tie them together with a strong rope if she can). Satsuki blows her breath hot against Riko’s abs, brushing her fingers over the surface, up to Riko’s chest. She slides her palm between Riko’s breasts; Riko’s face flushes all over again (Satsuki does not have to tell Riko how much she adores them, the way they fit in her hands, small and firm, the way Riko’s nipples swell the way they are right now). Satsuki leans down to kiss Riko again, and then turns her attention back to Riko’s skirt.   
  
It’s tousled and slid most of the way up her thighs; Satsuki reaches around to the zipper and undoes it, easing Riko out. Riko’s propping herself up on her elbows, watching in earnest, her attention sharp and honed like the point of an expensive steak knife. Satsuki can see her calculating statistics in her head and she doesn’t want that; she doesn’t want Riko to be able to think enough to think that. She wants Riko focused only on her, as she is—selfish, but Riko keeps rewarding her for it.  
  
And Riko deserves a reward, too. There’s a wet spot on her panties (light pink briefs with a bow on them, unapologetically cute and feminine and so very Riko) and she moves her hands down as if to take them off next and be done with it. Satsuki stops her, hands covering Riko’s against Riko’s hips.  
  
“Let me.”  
  
She doesn’t wait for an answer. As she dips her head Riko spreads her legs and Satsuki breathes in. She smells wet and ready; before Satsuki touches her lips to the spot she can feel how hot Riko is. Riko jerks back when Satsuki makes contact and drags her lips up, the soft fabric moving against Riko’s skin. Satsuki pokes her tongue out, licking Riko’s clit through the panties; Riko bucks her hips and makes a whining noise. The intensity of her gaze isn’t lessening, but it’s changing; Satsuki smiles against her.   
  
She lets go of Riko’s hands, ducking her fingers under the elastic and running them over the strip of bare skin. And then she peels the panties away, pulling them down just enough to give her enough access. She licks across Riko’s clit, for real this time, and, Riko groans, legs tensing. Satsuki licks again, the same motion, the same direction, exactly the way she knows Riko likes it. Again, like a cycle, a clock tick; Riko’s voice grows higher and she’s moving with Satsuki.  
  
Satsuki lifts her head and Riko collapses against the bed; her eyes are screwed shut but she gradually opens one.  
  
“Fuck you, come back.”  
  
When she says it like that, how can Satsuki refuse? She lets Riko kick her panties all the way off and moves back between her legs, bowing her head, brushing her thumbs over the insides of Riko’s thighs. She licks up Riko’s clit and keeps going back, until she curls her tongue inside her. God, Riko’s so slick and wet inside, edging away but Satsuki knows just how to bring her back. (Multiple times, if Riko will let her.)

* * *

2\. Dystopia

The program always wins. They say there’s a chance of beating it; they dangle it in front of people’s faces, and greed or hope or both always win out and the people snatch at it only for their hands to come up full of air alone. Riko had once been hopeful; her parents had always told her she was smart and capable and she’d always shown up that way on tests; they’d always streamlined her into the highest classes with the best training and filling rations.   
  
Then she had tried to beat the program. They’d given her chances; she’d saved them strategically, first hoping to use them to try different methods to see which got her the furthest. She’d think she had a lead only for it to vanish, for the next step on that path to be obscured because she couldn’t get halfway down the list of instructions she’d remembered exactly. Non-determinism isn’t something you can prepare for, but it had made her start to think that all of it was random, that they were never meant to win. That the task is impossible. There is no logic she can see to it, just futility and randomness, an addictive gamble to distract them all from the real issues, like how little food there is when there’s enough power to keep the central building completely alit 24/7.   
  
There’s a pink-haired young woman who comes to the program center when Riko does, sometimes; she always looks confident, the way Riko had once. She must be a beginner, someone who’d gotten a late start, saving up a hundred program passes to use them all at once and figure it out. It’s funny how they all try variations of that strategy; it’s funny how they all lose.   
  
The pink-haired woman and Satsuki are the only ones there on Saturday; Riko doesn’t even know why she still tries it. At this point it’s just a crapshoot, the so-called key to becoming a member of the elite class when there’s no lock to stick it in. The program kicks Riko out in five steps; she sighs. Two computers away, the pink-haired woman keeps typing.   
  
“Congratulations, you’ve just won the game!”  
  
Riko’s gaze fires around toward her, flicking to the computer screen. What the fuck?  
  
“Well,” says the pink-haired woman. “That should bring down the system.”  
  
“What do you mean--it’s impossible to beat!”  
  
“I know. I beat it anyway. They’re going to come for me in a minute or two, but I have backup. What do you say, Riko-chan, come with me?”  
  
(How does she know Riko’s name? Is it the same way she knows how to hack the program? If there’s nothing but trouble at the end, why do it in the first place?)  
  
Riko nods.

* * *

3\. Competition

  
Their first match of the Winter Cup is against Seirin. Symmetry, but they’ll win this time. It’s got nothing to do with the way Satsuki’s boys already have Seirin written off without Kagami; they could be dressing a middle-school team and Satsuki would still prepare carefully because it’s against Riko. That’s not just out of any of the due respect she owes Riko because of their relationship, or because they’ve managed together, or because of Riko as a coach. It’s because Riko’s pretty fucking dangerous when she wants to be, which is all of the time.  
  
“Don’t underestimate us,” Riko says, staring into the sky.  
  
Satsuki’s gaze follows hers. “We won’t.”  
  
“Good,” says Riko.  
  
Her kiss is forceful and strong, reiterating, riveting the sentiment into Satsuki’s mouth (as if she could forget). It’s important, still; it’s good to be reminded of mistakes before she makes them. (She sets her alarm early enough to send a long good-luck text that Riko will pretend not to appreciate and to get Aomine up so he gets his complaining about not getting to face Kagami--not that he’ll phrase it like that--out of the way.)  
  
Touou takes the court; Momoi stands behind them, nodding in approval of their straight backs and tall stances; they don’t leer so much as they intimidate with their presence. Seirin’s shootaround is fast-paced; they don’t look at Touou, giving off the impression of not caring, but looking at Riko anyone could tell that’s not the case. She’s pacing, the way she does when she’s truly nervous; the point of her pencil is attached to the clipboard. She’s frowning; she looks up and catches Satsuki’s eye. Satsuki winks; Riko blushes and sputters, turning her head to face the Touou backboard, acting like she’s getting more notes on the players. Satsuki doesn’t need to put her off-balance like this to win (and she’ll recover before the game, anyway) but all’s fair.  
  
Of course, Riko’s strategies and hidden plays can only go so far. Asahina’s shoulders can’t, shouldn’t, hold the same weight that Kagami and Kiyoshi had held properly together; they can pass as crisply and effectively as they want, misdirect every shooting attempt, but they actually have to put the ball in the hoop. Aomine’s fast; Wakamatsu’s strong; they can block enough and make up the rest in their shots without even making a statement like the rattling dunk Aomine makes to start off the last quarter, bringing Touou’s lead back up to twenty points.  
  
Riko is yelling at her team on the sidelines, clapping her hands; she’s not ready to give up, and no matter how much Aomine whines at her Satsuki’s not either.  
  
Touou wins in the end; it’s decisive (and, as the far-better team, it damn well should be) but it’s not easy. When it’s Riko, it’s never easy, and every win is satisfying (every loss burns inside her like an eternal candle). She doesn’t apologize afterward, or offer consolation.  
  
“Congratulations on your win,” Riko says.  
  
Satsuki claims her prize as a kiss.

 


	37. aohimu centuries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11889641#cmt11889641)
> 
> 2/9 (+7 hockey au with their own separate fic)

1\. the bruises on your thighs like my fingerprints

For an athlete, Himuro’s skin is surprisingly tender. He’s not soft, but his hands are remarkably free of cracks and blisters. He has that mole on his face, a few more across his back, the faintest ghosts of tan lines in the summer (even when he gets a little darker it stays even; maybe that’s got something to do with him playing as the skin to Aomine’s shirt in their one-on-ones when distinction isn’t even necessary but they make it). His cuts heal and the scars fade, receding to the inside. Aomine’s heard him been described as ethereal by some gushing magazine (no, he had not read their drooling profile of Himuro for any purpose; he’d just been bored) and it’s not that much of a stretch.   
  
But, as Aomine’s quickly discovering this summer, he bruises very easily. And those tend to stick around.  
  
They all get a little banged up during the season; Aomine’s noticed the spots like sprinkled dust or the faded green of a dropped potato, the way touching them breaks Himuro’s breath, the few times a year they manage to find themselves in the same city at the same time. But he drops the note onto the floor, a discarded post-it along with all the rest he’ll root through later when he’s feeling low or lonely, Himuro’s hand groping his ass and Himuro’s lips on his neck, Himuro’s voice going low in his throat, his warm weight asleep in Aomine’s arms.  
  
Himuro bangs his elbow on the door frame and swears a storm; Aomine doesn’t think much of it until the next day when the black and purple stands out against the pale of his skin; he doesn’t make much of a connection anywhere (other than to lift it and kiss it, pretend to make it better and make Himuro laugh). But then that night he’s pushing his fingers into Himuro’s thighs, thinking of how to mark him, a bite on his collarbone for when they go to the beach tomorrow, but then his fingers dig in deeper and Himuro hisses.  
  
“That hurt?”  
  
“No,” says Himuro. “Do it again.”  
  
His fingers leave marks, bright red lakes of pressure; he holds them there and squeezes, leaning in to kiss Himuro until he tucks his legs up and wraps them around Aomine and there’s not really enough room to do anything but tumble awkwardly to the bed.  
  
The next day the purple disappears beneath Himuro’s bathing suit as he gets dressed, but Aomine knows they’re there. He’d rather not let anyone else see them, anyway.

* * *

2.as long as there's a light / my shadow's over you

Daiki doesn’t want to turn on SportsCenter; he knows what he’s going to hear. He’s already seen the Knicks’ highlights, all different angles of Tatsuya’s forty-point night, the ball gliding off his hands and through the air, an off-balance pass transformed into a clean J, his perfect six-for-six at the line. It’s fucking gorgeous, and it’s only adding to Tatsuya’s league lead in points, as early as it is.   
  
And because it’s so early (and Daiki’s the de facto points leader now that Midorima’s gone all defensive-forward) and sportscasters are fucking dumb, they’re all turning toward the camera and asking if anyone can believe Tatsuya’s going to keep this up all year (often pointing out the lackluster competition that dominates the early part of the Knicks’ schedule), or if Daiki’s going to catch him. Always, always, always, Daiki hears his name; even when he tries hard to tune out the English he can’t escape it and his mind tunes itself back in to hear the rest of the comparison, unfair and unwarranted.   
  
Tatsuya’s the kind of guy who pretends to ignore his own press but listens to it all anyway and takes note; if there’s anything Daiki could give to him (other than the reserves of talent and power he craves so much, even though he’s doing just fine without that) it would be to get those guys to fucking shut up about him. Of course Tatsuya doing well makes him want to go out and turn in something better; of course he wants the best competition. But he’s not doing better right now, for whatever combination of reasons, and he doesn’t need to be mentioned here. He’s got the hardware, the points titles. Tatsuya deserves his own spotlight, outside of the shadows.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Daiki says over the phone, leaning forward to press his palm against the wall. “They keep talking about me, and you don’t deserve it.”  
  
“It’s not about what I deserve,” says Tatsuya. “It just reminds me that I can’t let up.”  
  
(Out of anyone in maybe the entire world, he needs that reminder the least.)  
  
“I want it, too,” says Tatsuya, quiet, like he hopes his phone mic won’t pick up on it. “But maybe I need to earn it.”  
  
He’s so fucking stupid; Daiki wants to fly across the country and wrap him in a hug and hold him out for the world that doesn’t deserve him to see. He rubs his eyes; maybe if he blinks hard enough it’ll happen.  
  
“Miss you,” he says.  
  
“Yeah,” says Tatsuya. 

 


	38. aokagahimu x nba x soulja boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11825641#cmt11825641)
> 
> 3/9

1\. hopped up out the bed / turn my swag on / took a look in the mirror said what's up / yeah i'm gettin money (ooh)

They take the long weekend after the all-star game, the really long weekend. Daiki can barely remember the game anymore, like a pleasant dream with too many irrelevant details, Taiga winning the dunk contest and that pleased little look on Tatsuya’s face, taking the floor for the East with all three of them in a row, Taiga pulling Daiki in on one side and Tatsuya on the other for a photo op, Daiki’s hand meeting Tatsuya’s at the small of Taiga’s back as they’d all crowded the frame more than they’d needed to.  
  
That had been great, but it had been even better to fly out to Hawaii, a welcome break from the shitty midwest winter Daiki’s been trapped in, and stay even if it’s just for a little bit and full of jet lag. He thinks about sleepy morning sex, the three of them in a king bed with the windows of their hotel room open all of the way, sweat against their cool skin, Tatsuya fitting between Daiki and Taiga in a cocoon of them, the tangle of three sets of limbs and the satisfaction of having absolutely no obligation to anywhere else but here, ordering room service for three meals a day, bottles of wine half-empty on the bedside table and crumbs from baked goods grinding into the bedcovers until Taiga had forced them to get up and get out for housekeeping.  
  
(Taiga hadn’t even gone surfing this time; he’d said a few times that he was going to, but ended up looking back at Daiki, half-asleep with his arm curled around Tatsuya, frowning and letting Tatsuya coax him back without a word. It was fucking awesome.)  
  
“I don’t want to go back to work,” Daiki says, lowering the sunglasses over his eyes (his jet lag from the trip out to the all-star game in Oakland and then straight to Hawaii is just starting to fade and it’s all going to come right back, and regardless of the time zone he’s damn tired because it’s the middle of the season)  
  
“Your job is playing basketball,” says Tatsuya (he’s got sunglasses, too; he looks so put-together and Daiki’s pretty sure he looks a wreck, ruffled hair and dry mouth and stiff body). “I’m sure you’ll manage.”  
  
“Taiga,” Daiki whines, throwing himself across Taiga’s lap (God, he’s glad they’d chartered a flight just for the three of them, though; it was expensive as fuck but they can afford it).  
  
“Tatsuya’s right,” says Taiga, but his hand betrays him, coming to rest with his fingers in Daiki’s hair, stroking against his scalp.  
  
Maybe it won’t be so bad to get back to it.

* * *

2\. i gives a fuck / go on / come to my motherfucking zone / i got me another mil on my motherfucking phone

Tatsuya would be lying if he said he didn’t get jealous of the way Daiki and Taiga go into the zone against each other. It doesn’t happen every time they play, but often enough; sometimes he can tell in their eyes when they’ve been itching for it and they’re going to go first five minutes, and, well. It’s incredible, the reason he loves basketball writ large across the TV screen, the way they move at a different speed from the world, the vibrations of their dunks through the hoops, the height of their jumps and the force of their blocks. But he can’t keep focusing on that, especially afterward, and it starts to hurt.  
  
It’s crawling behind his teeth, under his skin and deep in his muscles. He’d just played Taiga last week; this is what Taiga wants to play against, something Tatsuya can’t provide. He can’t provide it to Daiki, either; he’s useless and it’s something between them that he can’t share (he has those with Taiga and Daiki, and they run just as deep, but Tatsuya can’t help how much he wants this, too). It’s a reminder, too, that no matter how top-tier he is, best league in the world and best player on a good team, he’s still right below the top tier, reaching again and again and continuously falling short of the place where the people he loves the most are, and it’s starting to really fucking hurt. Tatsuya closes his eyes and leans back.  
  
They go out of the zone and finish the game, a step or two behind their usual pace, but they don’t need to worry about stats at this point in the game (and they’re still pretty fucking good, even compared to your average NBA player). Tatsuya gets up to make dinner when it’s over; he usually calls them but tonight they’ll be too tired to do anything other than sleep in each other’s arms (maybe Daiki will send him a morning selfie of him flashing a peace sign while Taiga drools on the pillow; the thought makes the hurt subside a little bit and Tatsuya smiles).  
  
The phone rings when he’s climbing into bed; it shows Taiga’s name on the caller ID.  
  
“Hey,” says Tatsuya. “Good game.”  
  
“You didn’t call,” says Taiga, a little accusatory.  
  
“I thought you might be too tired.”  
  
“Never too tired for you,” says Taiga, warmth flooding through the phone like a ray of sun through a closed window in winter. “I wish you were here.”  
  
“Me, too,” Tatsuya says, trying not to swallow so hard.  
  
“You should be here,” says Daiki. “Let Taiga cling to you instead.”  
  
“Who’s the clingy one, asshole?” says Taiga, and Tatsuya can hear the sound of rustling and shoving in the background.  
  
He feels the smile start on his face before he knows he wants to. It still hurts, but it’s fading like a days-old bruise, deeper than skin but still impermanent.

* * *

3\. i be so fresh to death / yeah i'm in the sky / you know watching dreams come true

Taiga doesn’t need a gold medal. Technically, without the gold game, this wouldn’t happen, but he doesn’t need any physical trophy when Tatsuya’s smiling so brilliantly, like a baseball game at night with floodlights and flashbulbs streaking beams of light everywhere. Taiga hasn’t let him go since they won; no one’s making him and Tatsuya doesn’t seem inclined to wriggle out from under his arm. He’s resting comfortably there, the number twelve on his back raised under Taiga’s fingers, and Taiga thinks back to when they were kids, escaping the summer heat by refilling cups of lemonade at fast-food restaurants and staring at the static-clogged Olympic basketball games on TV, vowing it would be them one day.  
  
And it is, now; they’re passing out the medals and Tatsuya pulls Taiga over for the photo op with the rest of the team, bumping and jostling to sort themselves out.  
  
“We’re number one!” someone shouts, and they all cheer; Taiga’s voice mixes with Tatsuya’s until he can no longer tell the difference.  
  
-  
  
Daiki had gotten back to their hotel room right after the bronze medal game; he’s still wearing his Team Japan jacket (it’s really not that cold, but he’s still injured so Taiga’s going to let him get away with more passive-aggression than usual).   
  
“We would have made it to the final if I was healthy,” Daiki says.   
  
“We still would have won,” says Tatsuya, but his tone nearly betrays a half-disbelief that this is all really happening.  
  
Taiga leans down to kiss his cheek and Daiki rolls his eyes, slumping back on the bed. “You two are disgusting. At least give me good victory sex.”  
  
“What have you won?” says Tatsuya.  
  
“You two,” says Daiki. “Pay up.”  
  
That doesn’t even make sense; Taiga opens his mouth to argue but Tatsuya’s already moving toward the bed, pulling his shirt off, shoving Daiki down the rest of the way.  
  
-  
  
The clock reads 4:16 in the morning when Taiga wakes up; he can still hear people partying outside the hotel but that’s not what’s done it. Next to him, Tatsuya’s snoring softly, one fist curled around the blankets. On the other side, Daiki shifts, rolling over to catch Taiga’s eye, as if he’s been up for a while.  
  
“He’s so fucking happy,” Daiki whispers, looking down at Tatsuya.  
  
“I know,” says Taiga, and God, does this lift him like nothing else, greater than a thousand victories.  
  
He tucks a lock of Tatsuya’s hair back behind his ear; Daiki catches his hand on Tatsuya’s jaw. They stay like that for a little while longer.


	39. nijihai angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11821801#cmt11821801)
> 
> 3/9

1\. Disempowered

Shuuzou’s not really sure what he expects out of Shougo right now, if anything. He’d thought, on the taxi the way over, about how Shougo might turn and run, claim to forget something when they get to the hospital, and then realizes it’s a little unfair to Shougo. Shougo wouldn’t lie about this, even if the hospital makes him uncomfortable or he’s not sure he should be here. It’s not as simple as that he should be because Shuuzou needs him to be, needs someone to distract him with a stupid argument or basketball bullshit or something else that isn’t the fact that his dad’s dying and he can’t fucking deal with it at all.  
  
It’s been a long time coming; he’s been sick for so long; it’s always called a relief when he reads a story about this kind of thing in a magazine but right now it’s not. His dad had been doing okay, until he wasn’t anymore, the same cycle it had always been, but this time it had just gotten worse and worse. And he’s the eldest son; he’s the one who needs to take some fucking responsibility here, let his mother grieve for her husband, let the kids (they’re still fucking kids, still in high school) grieve for the father they never knew as healthy.   
  
Shuuzou doesn’t want to bear the burden. It weighs double, maybe, because of how he’d drifted as a kid, how horrible he’d been to his parents; that weight comes on top of everything and he’s going to have to find some way to pick it up and carry it someday but the only thing to do right now is lean on Shougo. And Shougo hadn’t signed up for this; they’re still trying to feel out their relationship, feel out each other as adults, but relationships are always going to be full of things no one signed up for or realized.   
  
“You want me to get you anything?” Shougo says.  
  
All the sarcasm, any veneer of condescension is stripped from his voice. Shuuzou shakes his head. They wait in the waiting room (how did they get there?) and Shougo gets dinner for the kids. Their mom is in with him; Shuuzou leans back against the wall. He doesn’t know what this is going to be; he can’t just sit here in suspension but he can’t miss any last chance to be with his father. It just feels like whatever he does or doesn’t do is wrong, futile, pointless.  
  
The kids fall asleep on each other; Shougo’s yawning but his arm is draped around Shuuzou’s shoulders.   
  
“If you need to say anything,” he says.  
  
“I can’t,” says Shuuzou. “I can’t fucking do anything; it’s like—”  
  
He catches Shougo’s eyes; Shougo knows exactly what it’s like, too well, in too many ways, and Shuuzou’s forgotten all about that, long ago and less so and even now the ways the world boxes him in and locks him out and everything he does seems so fucking inconsequential. He wraps his arms around Shougo; Shougo’s eyes widen in surprise before Shuuzou tucks his face into Shougo’s neck (and all of a sudden he wants to cry, but he’s not going to fucking do that yet).  
  
“Weirdo,” says Shougo, with nothing but affection in his voice.

* * *

2\. Insomnia

Sometimes it helps to shift around in bed; Shougo claims it always does when Shuuzou tells him to settle the fuck down and they both end up pulling the covers away from each other until they fall asleep, centimeters or less between them. More often than not, the tossing and turning does nothing; Shuuzou drifts off after mumbling something about Shougo getting seasick. The noise outside lessens, cars occasionally speeding by on the night road, distant shouts fading into nothing. That only makes it harder when there’s nothing to distract him, and the worst part is he’s tired.  
  
Shougo’s tried everything. Mediation (it’s too easy to get fucking impatient and he always squirms and messes up), a white noise machine that had sort of worked after a few hours (and he’d only half-explained to Shuuzou) but covered up the alarm clock sound in the morning so they’d both been late for work, reading, avoiding caffeine and television, sleeping pills. None of it’s been all too helpful, and waiting for the effects to suddenly kick in only makes Shougo more agitated.  
  
He comes out to the kitchen some nights; the cat winds its way around his legs and whines for attention; Shougo’s not really inclined to give it much until it jumps on the table and headbutts his hand. It’s greedy and spoiled (all Shuuzou’s fault, and Shougo’s brother who nominally comes over to make sure Shougo’s still alive but really just wants to play with the cat because he’s too cheap to get a pet of his own). He scratches the top of its head, pets down its back. Cats don’t seem to have much trouble sleeping, whenever and wherever they please. Must be nice, to live in someone else’s house and get fed and fat and sleepy. The cat shakes its head, flicking its ears, and jumps down from the table; Shougo scowls at it. So much for that.  
  
It’s walking over to Shuuzou, standing in the doorway rubbing his eyes. His hair is sticking up at odd angles; it’s weirdly cute but Shougo just looks at him. The cat meows up at Shuuzou, and Shuuzou leans down to scratch its ears.  
  
“Hey, there. Keeping Shougo company?”  
  
Cats don’t answer questions, but Shuuzou seems satisfied with the cat rubbing up against his leg before he gives it another pat and walks into the room, folding his arms across his chest.  
  
“This happens a lot.”  
  
“Sometimes,” says Shougo, staring right back into Shuuzou’s eyes.  
  
Shuuzou breaks first, sighing and stepping over to kiss Shougo’s forehead. Shougo wrinkles his nose.  
  
“Sappy old man.”  
  
Shuuzou hums in agreement, draping his arms over the back of Shougo’s chair. “Let me know when you’re ready.”  
  
“You’re going to be stiff all night,” says Shougo.  
  
Shuuzou drops into the opposite chair. He nods off about half an hour later, head resting in his hand. Shougo watches the rhythm of his chest rising and falling, the angles of the shadows from the shitty overhead light. He’s not going to fucking carry Shuuzou back to bed, but either way it’s better to not sleep lying on something comfortable than to stare at the delay light on the coffee pot.  
  
“Get up,” Shougo says, shaking Shuuzou’s shoulder.  
  
Shuuzou yawns. He’s asleep again before he crawls all the way in bed; Shougo rolls his eyes, but he pulls the covers over them both and closes his eyes. Sleep takes a while for him, but maybe it’s a little less than usual.

 

* * *

3\. Loneliness

Shougo hadn’t always assumed he’d end up alone. He’d grown up thinking that if this basketball thing stuck that he’d get all the girls; he’d gone blustering through middle school until Kise Ryouta had metaphorically socked him in the face and stolen his thunder and after that it had been a little harder to imagine. He’d had nothing to base that imagining on, only his mother and his brother and their failed romantic endeavours, striking out and yelling in the middle of the night and coming home late and disheveled and pretending not to look unhappy.  
  
And girls wouldn’t stick to him; they’d flirt and tell him he was such a bad boy and then go nowhere, leave before the night was over or after he’d missed his chance to make them stay. So his future had adjusted again, and, well. Shougo’s no quitter but it had looked for such a long stretch that he’d end up alone that he’d started to believe it. He hadn’t had much in the way of future plans, but they were just for himself and it was better that way. No one else to focus on, make sacrifices for, no one else to try and hurt or use him.   
  
And then he’d been playing streetball, one on one without any hustle because it had been a payday from his real job and he’d felt rich enough to buy two dinners if he’d felt like it, seen someone lurking and watching against the fence, and of fucking course it was Nijimura.  
  
“You look the same,” he’d said, and Nijimura had, still the same height too, now actually shorter than Shougo and that had been weird as hell.  
  
“You look worse,” Nijimura had said.  
  
And Nijimura hadn’t been a hot girl but he’d ended up in Shougo’s bed anyway, multiple times, more times than any girl ever had and somewhere along the way Shougo had realized (between Nijimura’s clothes taking up space in his dresser and calling each other by first names) that this was maybe for the long term, maybe a possibility.  
  
They’d still arugued; they still do, about the same shit they did back in middle school and the same shit Shougo used to argue about with his brother and mother, the reason he’d moved out as soon as he could afford it But with Nijimura it’s almost sort of comfortable, almost like Shougo could get used to it, familiar enough to shove the permanent loneliness out of his mind.


	40. kagahimu softcore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11775209#cmt11775209)
> 
> 3/9

1\. crazy in love

They turn the lights down slowly; at first Taiga thinks it’s just his eyes or he’s in a bad spot and he leans a little closer to Tatsuya. Tatsuya moves toward him in response, his hand brushing Taiga’s on the way up from his side, bringing his glass of wine to his math. Taiga watches, eyes stuck to Tatsuya’s mouth, his lips curling around the edge, the stem so thin in his fingers. His tongue is sticking, dried like envelope glue, to the roof of his mouth and his hand moves to his collar.   
  
“Hmm?” says Tatsuya.  
  
The lights are dimming even further; Taiga’s familiar with the concept of mood lighting but this is closer to a fucking blackout. Maybe it’s a good thing, shadows thrown on top of shadows across Tatsuya’s face, his eye still sparking in the low light. He reaches out a hand; no one’s going to see, black suits swallowed by the dark and skin hidden by blocked light. Tatsuya’s ass is firm under his touch; Taiga doesn’t really want to squeeze and pinch right now, just run his hand over the curve and wait for Tatsuya to react.   
  
Tatsuya shifts his wine glass to his other hand; Taiga can see the dark liquid splashing in it, betraying the unsteadiness Tatsuya won’t himself. He leans in, crowding Tatsuya’s space, forcing Tatsuya to look up into his eyes. Tatsuya’s face is steady; even when it’s this dark they probably can’t get away with much more, but he can see Tatsuya’s throat move when his breath hitches.   
  
Tatsuya’s free hand presses against the top of his belt; between them is a sliver of a chasm, invisible to anyone. Tatsuya moves his hand down, staring into Taiga’s eyes, palming him through his pants and it’s too hot in here; Taiga’s cheeks are on fire and his arms are starting to itch. He moves his hand down to squeeze Tatsuya’s ass from the bottom. (This is turning into some party, and at least it’s in a fancy-ass hotel.)  
  
“We don’t have a room,” says Tatsuya, curling his hand around the outline of Taiga’s cock, leaving it there.  
  
Taiga tries to think; it takes a few seconds for his breath to work enough to speak, and a few more to gather something to say. “I have a black card.”  
  
“Better get me the honeymoon suite,” says Tatsuya.  
  
Taiga would give him nothing less.

* * *

2\. take care (drake medley)

Tatsuya’s always been proud of Taiga, as much as it hurt. There’s always been pride, swelling behind the anger and resentment, his own pride that he can’t let go of but pride in Taiga and how far he’s come, where he’s going to go, perhaps not his to take but it’s hard not to (especially not when Taiga smiles at him and shares everything, gives and gives until Tatsuya yields and takes).   
  
He couldn’t have been prouder of Taiga winning the Winter Cup all the way back then, Taiga getting recruited, getting drafted, winning MVP. And fuck, it hurts now that he’s in the league too and his team had been on the outside of the playoffs looking in, to watch Taiga lift the O’Brien Trophy like it’s weightless, clutch the MVP award in his other arm, share it with his teammates (and they’ve all earned it).  
  
But Taiga’s not like Tatsuya; he doesn’t run out of reserves to share so quickly; he’s been up for hours, back from the party, stinking of champagne and sweat and packing materials from all the championship gear he’s been loaded up with. He is practically glowing in the near-sunrise of near-midsummer, four in the morning; his hands are still moving, still excited with the paid-out promise of victory. And right now, Tatsuya can’t be prouder; Taiga’s happiness is flowing into him and when you love someone their happiness is supposed to be your own and, well, this isn’t that but it’s a hell of a lot closer than Tatsuya thought he’d ever get.  
  
There are no words for this, only the sleep falling away from Tatsuya like a snake’s shed skin; he is molting under the fire of Taiga’s touch, slipping off his clothes (Taiga is still wearing the championship t-shirt over his jersey, and Tatsuya wouldn’t take it off but then Taiga moves to do it himself). Taiga can’t decide what to do with his hands, running over Tatsuya’s sternum, sliding all across his abdomen, the muscles that haven’t quite faded into their summer state of just a little subtler. Tatsuya looks at him, lips twitching just a little. It’s good to take time but he’s getting a little impatient; he’ll let Taiga take the driver’s seat but only if he goes a little bit faster.  
  
“Yeah,” says Taiga, grin spreading across his cheeks, kissing Tatsuya long and slow, tonguing the inside of his mouth as he curls one finger inside of Tatsuya, then two. “Yeah.”  
  
Tatsuya shifts; Taiga’s other arm pulls him in close, chest flush against chest.  
  
“Yeah,” Tatsuya echoes, without mocking because Taiga’s pushing in deeper and the heat’s unfurling between them, even before the sun rises.

* * *

3\. nice and slow

They doze off on the bed; Taiga vaguely remembers Tatsuya pulling a sheet out of a box to wrap himself in before Taiga pulls him back into his arms, kissing his shoulder and thinking it was a good idea to put the bed together first. Of course, they’re half-asleep and the rest of the furniture is in pieces or scattered around their apartment, but even Taiga doesn’t really give a damn because it’s their apartment. Even the usual anticipation and excitement that snaps his eyes open and his pulse rate up to five times its resting pace has nothing on his exhaustion, moving boxes in all day and pushing Tatsuya up against the counter for a quick kiss until he’d ducked away, laughing, to pick up another box of utensils.  
  
It hadn’t been too long before they’d gone into the bedroom and, well, Taiga can’t say he hasn’t already imagined Tatsuya on top of him on the bed, straddling Taiga’s waist and grinding against him, both of them rolling over to the side and the tips of Tatsuya’s cheeks slightly flushed, his pupil wide, his cock hard and grinding against Taiga’s thigh. Thoughts pass through Taiga’s sleep-addled brain like leaves in a fall rainstorm against a grate, rushing with the water; he only starts to think again when Tatsuya rolls over, groaning softly. He’s awake, but Taiga’s eyes want to stay shut; he nuzzles Tatsuya’s neck. Putting things together can wait just a little longer.  
  
“I don’t want to get up,” Taiga murmurs.  
  
“Me, either,” says Tatsuya.  
  
Taiga waits for him to pick up the next clause, but or though or however, but it doesn’t come.   
  
“I want to fuck you,” Tatsuya says.   
  
Taiga swallows; he’s definitely a little bit more awake all of a sudden, and Tatsuya’s hands are moving down onhis bare chest and why had he pulled on the ratty shorts he was wearing earlier? He bucks his hips into Tatsuya’s; Tatsuya laughs.  
  
“You want it, too, huh?”  
  
“Yes,” Taiga says; his voice is still thick and cracked with sleep; he opens his eyes. Tatsuya’s lips still look a little swollen; his hair is all messed up and off his forehead and for once he doesn’t seem to care, tracing down Taiga’s jaw with a finger (Taiga leans into the touch, waits for another finger but in vain). Tatsuya drags a line down Taiga’s chest, around his nipple; Taiga shudders.   
  
“Good,” says Tatsuya. “Does this feel good?”  
  
“Yes,” says Taiga. “Yes, God, Tatsuya.”  
  
Tatsuya kisses him, sweet and slow like dessert wine from the bottom of the glass. They can take however long they want; they have two years on this lease, forever to spend, just the two of them (screw practicality). Tatsuya’s thinking the same thing; Taiga can tell. He trails kisses over Taiga’s neck, biting (never deep enough to leave a mark; Taiga always hopes he will). Taiga’s own hands settle around Tatsuya’s hips; he moves them lower, tugging at the sheet. Tatsuya’s cock is still soft in his hand; he strokes the tip. Tatsuya wriggles away.  
  
“Slow down,” he says, barely meaning it (but he wants Taiga to chase, and Taiga would chase him across galaxies, outside the universe; he has to know that).  
  
Taiga lifts the same hand to Tatsuya’s chin, bringing him back in for another kiss.  
  
“Whatever you want.”  
  
Tatsuya hums, unfurling warmth in Taiga’s chest.


	41. kiseki, cheesy quotes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11849449#cmt11849449)
> 
> 3/9

1\. "our love is like the wind. i can't see it, but i can feel it." (aomido)

The rain is splattering against the windowpane, the wind howling like that awful screamo track that one of Midorima’s teammates always insists on playing before warmups to get the team riled up (Midorima’s not the only one who dislikes it, so perhaps that’s the intended effect) but at least he still has cell service. The fall in Boston is terrible, cold rain and short days and drivers who get somehow even worse as time goes on, almost hitting him when he crosses the street despite his bright green Celtics umbrella. Hurricanes are rare, but they make things even worse; practice is canceled and Midorima has nothing to do but pace the well-worn path on the wood floor of his apartment while talking to Aomine.  
  
(Midorima tries not to be bitter that he’s in Florida this weekend, the hurricane capital that’s nothing but balmy and bright right now; Aomine could go to the beach and sleep on the sand if he so desired, practice schedules nonwithstanding.)  
  
“Can’t be that bad, Babe.”  
  
“You try going out in it. I bet you can hear the wind.”  
  
A few seconds of silence on the other end (Aomine’s presumably listening), a gust of wind that rattles the panes. Midorima sighs.  
  
“That was you.”  
  
“Ha, ha,” says Midorima.  
  
“Well,” says Aomine, and he’s got that tone that tells Midorima he’s about to say something particularly stupid. “Our love is like the wind.”  
  
“What,” says Midorima.  
  
“I can’t see it, but I can feel it.”  
  
“I’m hanging up on you,” says Midorima.  
  
“I was being profound! I mean it! The wind outside, that’s me wanting to show my love. I’m sending it to you from here.”  
  
“You could have sent something better than wind,” says Midorima.  
  
“I can’t believe you’re being so cold,” says Aomine.  
  
“You could have sent yourself,” says Midorima.  
  
Aomine doesn’t say anything, and Midorima knows that was more than a little unfair of him to say. They both know they can’t do anything about the NBA schedule; they’ll be playing each other in two and a half weeks and they’d just spend the summer together and, still. Midorima takes a breath.  
  
“Shintarou,” Aomine says (his voice is crumbling).  
  
“I’m sorry,” says Midorima.  
  
“Me, too,” says Aomine.   
  
(There’s no joke about how he should come play in Cleveland, no follow-up, just the two of them on the line together. But Midorima feels a little bit less alone.)

* * *

2\. "i'm just exactly where i want to be." (aomidokise)

  
The tap of fingers on a keyboard, erratic in their rhythm, has grown comfortable in Kise’s ears, something warm like breakfast in bed or extra-thick socks on a day that’s colder than it should be. Kise closes his eyes; Aomine drums the keys but doesn’t press until he hits what sounds like the delete key and then begins to type words again, sentences that don’t stutter in the rhythm of which they’d be spoken. The flesh-on-plastic sound is punctuated by the slide of paper on paper from Midorima’s textbook, the slide and smell of the highlighter going over the text, methodical line after line. Kise sighs softly.  
  
“They might let you into college if you tried a little harder,” says Aomine. “Offer them a signed photo or something; bribe your way in.”  
  
Midorima snorts, the comment about reputable institutions left unsaid but Aomine and Kise definitely hear it. Sometimes Kise thinks about telling Midorima to get off his national-university high horse, but he’s earned that position and of all the things to be smug about that one’s pretty justifiable.   
  
“You could take online courses,” says Midorima. “Prepare for the exams again.”  
  
“Ew,” says Kise.  
  
He opens his eyes just in time to see Midorima’s glare, sliding into a pout on his face. Kise looks to the other side; Aomine’s watching Midorima’s face with unbridled delight, his fingers slack against the keys. They’re both so fucking cute. Kise slips one hand into Midorima’s, resting on the edge of the textbook, and the other in Aomine’s.   
  
“I can’t work like this,” says Aomine, but he doesn’t move it.  
  
“You don’t want to work,” says Midorima, but he’s making no move to pick up his highlighter again.  
  
“Do you?” says Aomine.  
  
Midorima pushes up his glasses and gives a tiny, so much so that it’s almost missable, smile. Shit. Kise’s not sure if he or Aomine is the first one to try and reach across to grab the textbook; Aomine’s laptop nearly falls to the floor and Midorima puts the textbook gingerly on the table next to the highlighter before Kise can get to it. Aomine pushes Kise forward on top of Midorima; Midorima’s grabbing at Aomine; Kise’s squished between them like a roasted marshmallow between graham crackers. Midorima is grumbling about how heavy they are and Aomine’s trying to take off all of their shirts at once but everything’s getting tangled. And Kise’s just exactly where he wants to be.

* * *

3. "i love you. i knew it the moment i met you. i'm sorry it took me so long to catch up. i just got stuck." (aomomo)

The realization doesn’t strike Daiki the way love is supposed to, the way it does in the dramas his mom watches or the manga Ryou writes, complete with blush stickers and hearts in the air. It’s not like an anvil on his head, an ache in his chest, the burn of jealousy splitting his stomach in two. It’s more gradual, the way Satsuki sits in the sun on the school roof, smoothing down her skirt, the way she wolfs down her food and makes Daiki turn the pages of her basketball magazine (and he’s reading it, too, but still). It’s the way she stands next to him, electric, larger than him and larger than life (with all five feet and change on her frame) and tells him, shows him, the array of moves available (but he’s the one who chooses where to strike, who tosses all of that off the table and goes his own way only to take advantage of something she’d showed him when it shouldn’t be feasible; he catches her eye and the tiny smile she gives him afterward, and it’s the best feeling in the world).  
  
It doesn’t make sense; it’s Satsuki; they’ve known each other since they were kids playing in the dirt and skinning their knees. Daiki’s always denied anything like this between the two of them and always meant it, because, well. Satsuki’s Satsuki; she’s smart and funny and gorgeous but in an objectively-true kind of way, not on the plane of porn actresses and aloof classmates who run through Daiki’s daydreams. She’s too real, too solid for that; he knows her too well. He’s loved her forever, since before he really had a concept of what that meant, and now.  
  
This isn’t just a passing fancy, a what-if; this is too real and heavy because it’s Satsuki. She’ll be good about it; she’ll realize (because she always knows what Daiki’s feeling, better than he does or at least better than he’ll admit). It’s going to be awkward for a while, but not too much; she’ll keep things stable and usual and Daiki doesn’t want stable and usual. He wants the rush of standing on the edge of the roof, balancing on the toes of his shoes, and grabbing her hand, touching her in ways he hadn’t and had always assumed would be reserved for someone else.   
  
It weighs on Daiki’s shoulders; he slumps over his lunch as Satsuki reads the stats out loud, her voice clear, eyes darting up to Daiki, until she puts it away. She puts her hand on his shoulder; he puts his bento down. She’s about to let him down gently, he thinks, until she leans in and kisses him.  
  
“What took you so long?” she asks.  
  
He shrugs. “I just got stuck, I guess.”  
  
She laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sound in the world.


	42. muraaka, assorted one word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11985641#cmt11985641)
> 
> 6/9

1\. respect

This was, in hindsight, all about respect. This was the respect Murasakibara owes Akashi, as a captain and a friend and whatever-this-is that they do, neither of them wanting to slap a label on it. It was about defying him, taking something before it was given; it was about a show of power, Akashi stopping his strongest, most thunderous force with just his small frame. But that, too, was about respect, the clearly conditional respect Akashi has for himself, the respect of his teammates he'd put on the table when engaging in this sort of competition.  
  
He’s been different now, but still the same. He commands respect differently, a table with the finish chipped off redone in a darker hue. Perhaps this change was necessary; Murasakibara privately thinks it was a long time coming, a divide of Akashi against himself, withholding power and a host of other things he’s not privy to. Sometimes it’s too complicated for Murasakibara to want to think about, especially in front of Akashi (rumors that he can read minds are unfounded but even so).   
  
He kisses differently, too; he lets Murasakibara get away with more only to sharply redirect Murasakibara's wandering hands with his own, sharp and cool, rather than moving back and telling him to stop. He speaks more with his actions, a quick pass or an outside shot, a drive through traffic that sends the whole court down to the floor. Murasakibara wouldn’t say he’s more aggressive per se, but perhaps the word fits more than he’d like it to. Perhaps the only reason Murasakibara’s reluctant to use it is that Akashi wouldn’t want it. But who is he to say what Akashi wants?  
  
Before, Akashi was content to just let them do things; now he moves them along, disciplined, in some sort of direction. It’s not bad, not as incompatible with Murasakibara as people who don’t know him might think. It’s just different, like a repackaged candy with a slightly different recipe; he gets used to it quickly enough, skin touching skin with a purpose, red and yellow eyes staring out from under the curtain of Akashi’s bangs, not yet swept aside. Murasakibara could palm Akashi’s whole head if he wanted to (and he’s thought about it). But this Akashi knows when he reaches out, and rather than leaning into the touch or telling him not to he takes Murasakibara’s hand in his.They’re so different in size they very nearly don’t fit, and yet. Akashi holds it, and Murasakibara would like to think it’s out of respect.

* * *

2\. giving in

Way back when, Momoi had accused Akashi of playing favorites. Actually, it hadn’t been an accusation so much as a statement, confirming that she’d known. Akashi had shrugged and told her she was right, because he did have favorites among his teammates, based purely on their value to him. Haizaki was trouble, disobedient and a distraction to all of them, and constantly getting terrible grades. Midorima was close to perfect, meticulous and able to do things without Akashi telling him (invaluable in a teammate, and in a vice-captain).   
  
Momoi hadn't been talking about either of them, though; they’d both known she’d meant Murasakibara. But that bit had remained unspoken, hidden between them like a foot buried in the sand on a beach vacation.  
  
Murasakibara is Akashi’s favorite because he’s so useful, flexible; his stature and continued existence strike fear into the other teams before the game even starts. His talent is terrifying; he wields his skills like double-bladed axes, raw and firm and bludgeoning when the blade won’t cut. And he’s stubborn, like whichever farm animal is on the coaches’ mind but really like himself, tautologically so (like a carton of ice cream sitting in the back of the freezer for too long, bending a spoon that tries to carve a sliver from it). He is not easy or obedient; it’s something that normally would irritate Akashi but with Murasakibara it’s different. He listens; he will give in; sometimes he won’t and it’s a game, a puzzle he can’t figure out, not mathematically solvable the way a game of shogi is. It’s a matter of putting things together, rearranging them, giving Mruasakibara enough incentive without wasting his own time, a careful balance.  
  
“Aka-chin, am I your favorite?” Murasakibara asks (he knows what he’s doing; he always does; another thing that’s very much to like about him).   
  
“What do you think?” says Akashi.  
  
Murasakibara takes the lollipop out of his mouth and jams it into the wrapper; his tongue and teeth are stained slightly turquoise and it clashes horribly with his hair, at the same time makings sense, like a piece of second-rate pop art. He sticks the lollipop, wrapper and all, into his pocket, and Akashi waits for him to lean down.   
  
The kiss is pleasant, if artificially sour; Murasakibara pulls back.  
  
“Well?” says Akashi.  
  
“You tell me,” says Murasakibara.  
  
Akashi’s not giving in quite that easily.

* * *

3\. clinging

Atsushi always clings to Seijuurou in the morning, like a cat sinking in its claws into the edge of the sofa and refusing to move or be moved (and when someone tries he digs in harder), only Seijuurou’s the sofa and he’s the one being prevented from leaving. He can peel off Atsushi’s grip when he’s asleep, but when he’s awake it’s harder and when it’s the morning and Seijuurou hasn’t had his tea yet, it’s not very pleasant for either of them. That’s not enough to make Atsushi stop.   
  
His long fingers curl around Seijuurou’s thighs, pressing against the bruises he’d left there some time ago, still a little tender but mostly faded; he slips one arm around Seijuurou’s waist, fitting him into the crook of his elbow. He shudders in the cool air of the bedroom and reis to wrap both of them in the flat sheet, but only manages to tangle it up and free his ankles to the air. Seiijuurou sighs, leans in to kiss Atsushi’s forehead until his fingers loosen; he knows how it works by now but lets Seijuurou have it. His hands slip away, a shucked shell from around Seijuurou’s body.  
  
When Seijuurou comes back from the bathroom, Atsushi’s got all of the covers pulled back over him, but his face is still free to watch Seijuurou adjust his tie and pick up his phone from the bedside table, and after that Atsushi always tries to pull him back into bed again. It’s the disadvantage of working different schedules, Atsushi’s staggered three hours later, all of this separate coming and going (breakfasts separate, Seijuurou leaving water in the kettle for Atsushi’s coffee, dinners quiet while Atsushi tries not to think about work and Seijuurou’s almost ready to go to sleep). Seijuurou sighs; just because he doesn’t come back to bed for real doesn’t mean he likes it this way.  
  
Atsushi clings in the evenings, too, but it’s a different kind, softer and sloppier, never with any real (or half-real) intent to hold Seijuurou to a place or a position. They’re drifting off to sleep; they could be taking their respective sides of the bed, but Atsushi’s arm is thrown over Seijuurou’s waist, his fingers tapping Seijuurou’s hip. His lips are pressed to the outside of Seijuurou’s shoulder, dry. Seijuurou adjusts himself and scoots a little closer. Atsushi’s the one who clings. Seijuurou’s never minded being clung to.

* * *

4\. wait

Murasakibara gets used to not waiting quicker than he’d thought he would. His new teammates are tall, not quite as tall as him but close (Fukui aside, but he walks quickly, silencing any comments about his relatively-stubby legs before they’re even made in someone’s head), and they walk as quickly as Murasakibara does, even without slowing his pace. He doesn’t have to wait, stutter himself; it’s certainly different but Murasakibara’s not sure if it’s good or not.  
  
Maybe it’s better that waiting is something he’d done only for Akashi (when it was someone else, Aomine or Kuroko mostly, he’d always complain about their short legs and slow pace; Akashi had not demanded it outright but he’d wanted and, well, Murasakibara’s not usually one for concessions but Akashi is always the exception). It’s something he’d left behind in Tokyo, sloppily-packed boxes of the stuff he wasn’t even taking with him just so his brother could have more space in their shared room, the light-blue Teikou uniform shirts that barely fit him by the time he’d left (not enough time to get new ones in a larger size, a waste of money when he’s already about to go to boarding school), Akashi himself.  
  
Akashi had pulled him down by his blazer, more sloppy and forceful but still in the same Akashi way, after that one-on-one, kissed him longer and harder, more of a statement than an exploration. He’d pulled away, one eye bright yellow, looking the same direction as the still-red one. Murasakibara could have asked him to wait, then; he didn’t. He hadn’t wanted to wait, because there had been nothing to wait for, only a missed chance when the shot clock runs out.   
  
“Are you coming?” says Liu.  
  
He has a fistful of candy bars in his hand; Fukui is telling Okamura that banana-flavored Hi-Chew is more appropriate for a gorilla than mango but they’re in the checkout line. Murasakibara’s still deciding, but then grabs a few bags of chips. He’ll get another flavor the next time he comes back (and does not think about how Akashi wouldn’t have rushed him here).   
  
The sun is in their eyes; Liu and Fukui are shoving at each other as they step out the door. Murasakibara pulls out his phone, no new messages. He opens the weather app and flips it to Kyoto; it’s warm there. Maybe Akashi’s teammates are waiting for him to walk a little faster there.

* * *

5\. loser

Atsushi doesn’t gloat. It’s generous of him, but then he’s used to winning (even if one doesn’t always lead to the other). That doesn't make it feel any less of a failure, and it doesn’t stop Seijuurou from being preoccupied.   
  
“I hate losing, too,” says Atsushi, and he’s not lying.  
  
He pouts when he loses, and Seijuurou has to coax him out like a shy animal, cajole and praise and sweeten the deal with sugar; Atsushi challenges him to make him forget and Seijuurou always rises to the occasion. But Seijuurou doubts Atsushi feels the same bitter burn, salve left on too long, licking at his skin in the entirely wrong way. He loses; he hates it; he cycles through it and brings a little more drive he didn’t know he had to the next game.  
  
It is, after all, only a game, but saying that, only, is belittling. Even if it weren’t Seijuurou’s career it’s still another important thing, stacking up in his win-loss record overall (which, to be fair, is predominantly wins, but the voice in the back of his head whispers that it’s a failure if it’s not all wins, that he’s already failed and no matter how hard he tries to even it up there’s no returning to the very top, that he does not deserve it).  
  
“Don’t worry about that so much,” Atsushi says, even though Seijuurou hasn’t said anything. He’s looking, though, out past Atsushi’s open window, to the desert beyond. He claims to hate the hot weather but lives right in the dry heat, out in the open, far away from everything (not that it’s hard out here; everything has space; back in LA the sprawl results in everyone being on top of each other, different from Tokyo in a way Seijuurou’s still not sure he likes).   
  
“You’re,” says Atsushi, but he doesn’t finish the sentence, handing over a half-melted candy bar.  
  
It’s disgusting; Seijuurou takes a bite anyway. The chocolate smears on his teeth, the nuts and rice hold most of the flavor, brittle in the heat.   
  
“Sorry I can’t do better,” says Atsushi.  
  
“You can,” says Seijuurou, “But you’re not sorry you aren’t.”  
  
Atsushi shrugs, but Seijuurou prefers his victories when they’re earned, not conceded (though it is a victory, better than some alternatives, after all). He puts the candy bar down on the table, letting it smear against the wood, leans over, and kisses Atsushi. With this, there are no concessions, no allowances, just a team effort where, actually, both of them win, and a shared victory is no less sweet.

* * *

6\. holding

“Holding, that's romantic,” says Himuro, tapping Murasakibara’s shins with his stick as Murasakibara skates to the penalty box.  
  
Murasakibara’s got the sudden urge to stick out his tongue like he’s five but he’s a little bit more mature than that. At least he’s got Gatorade in the penalty box, and he can watch Akashi skate by him on his way to the circle in Yosen’s zone. Coach is going to yell at him and make him train after this game, and he knows Akashi and Rakuzan don’t need to draw penalties to be mercilessly effective. He hadn’t meant to put his team down a man; he’d just gotten caught flat-footed.  
  
He shouldn’t. Two minutes already seems too fucking long, longer than the whole period, but wishing for less is wishing for a power play goal when they’re already down one and, while they’ve come back from worse deficits Murasakibara would rather not be there in the first place. He scowls, sticking his feet out, the toes of his skates scraping the boards that serve as the box wall. It’s a bad idea, in case someone decides to lay down a hit, but they won’t, not in the neutral zone.  
  
Probably.  
  
The Rakuzan powerplay handles the puck masterfully, like famous artists are supposed to be with grand gestures and sweeping paint strokes. Mibuchi and Nebuya handle the points; Akashi takes Himuro’s jawing (Murasakibara would be interested, except it probably involves some sort of hockey stat talk and swearing in English, the way all of Himuro’s conversations seem to converge). Akashi shoots; the goalie covers; the whistle blows. Murasakibara looks up; that’s only twenty seconds gone.  
  
-  
  
“Your captain told me he didn’t know we were quite this romantic,” says Akashi, amusement layering his voice (he’d better not have shown that to Himuro; it’ll only encourage him).  
  
“So annoying,” says Murasakibara. “Hockey’s different.”  
  
“But it’s special, too, right?” says Akashi.  
  
Murasakibara’s not going to answer such a loaded question. He figures sliding his hand higher on Akashi’s thigh, covering the whole top half with his palm, is enough of an answer for that. Akashi cocks his head, but does not pursue the path any further (he’s probably still thinking about his stupid powerplay goal or something).  
  
“If I wanted to hold you, I’d do it properly,” says Murasakibara.   
  
“Do you?” says Akashi.  
  
Murasakibara pulls him into his lap, small and warm, hooking one arm around Akashi’s tiny little waist. He fits well like this, gives Murasakibara enough room, but he’s there, solid, not too heavy. Akashi makes a pleased sound like a spoiled cat (this is a result much preferable to the penalty box).


	43. kagahimu 4th of july

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11908585#cmt11908585)
> 
> 3/9

1\. i'm sorry every song's about you

Alex and her friends manage to strong-arm them into karaoke one night when they were supposed to be hanging out and maybe barbecuing. Tatsuya supposes it could be worse; he’ll have fun belting out shitty ten-year-old pop songs and listening to Taiga rap and Alex sing the hooks. Her friends look like the type to choose songs no one’s ever heard of or maybe some old rock jams, but they surprise him with a disco song the first go-round. Tatsuya flips through the book; the selection’s not that great but for what they’re paying it’s probably pretty decent.  
  
Taiga looks over his shoulder, and Tatsuya tries not to think about feeling his breath, about how he’s so close Tatsuya could turn his head and kiss him, the way they used to. He needs to fucking get over it; Taiga has; Taiga’s okay with them being whatever messy, complicated, not-dating thing they are right now (it’s not fraternal but it’s familial; friendship is too narrow and wrong of a word at this point). Taiga’s not still pathetically hung up him. Tatsuya thinks about Taiga’s body heat, the beer he’d insisted on paying for at the counter while Alex’s friends fought over the snacks. He punches in a few numbers on the karaoke machine and passes it to Taiga.  
  
“Knock yourself out.”  
  
Tatsuya’s turn comes soon, some shitty emo hit from right around the time he’d left for Akita that hadn’t meant much to him at the time but now, well. It’s like some white dudes in eyeliner had been sitting around with a crystal ball that could see the future, Taiga and Tatsuya’s awful breakup, and dolled up the words. Tatsuya tries not to look at Taiga when he sings, staring at the lyrics he knows by heart. He looks down when the song ends, picks up his beer and tries not to chug it all at once.   
  
“Um,” says Taiga, his hand ghosting over the air above Tatsuya’s.  
  
The mic. Right.  
  
Tatsuya passes it and Taiga starts singing something from the musical his sixth-grade class had put on; Tatsuya snorts. Someone passes him the songbook again, and he rifles through the pages, trying to ignore the same kind of song. He’s not in the mood for a power ballad; he doesn’t know any of these gangster rap songs; his finger slides down to another song that, playing in his mind, sounds like his own life all over again.  
  
“Good choice!” says Alex.  
  
Before Tatsuya can say he hadn’t really been considering it (a lie), she keys it in and takes the book back. Tatsuya wonders how long he can loiter outside buying more snacks and booze, but he knows Alex. She’ll make everyone wait.   
  
This time he does look at Taiga, and once he does he can’t look away; it’s like a knife is twisting in his throat but he still has to sing, still loud but in key, like the words are being forced onto a bridge directly into Taiga’s understanding. He can’t overdo it; he can’t have fun with it; he’s just singing and singing and wishing he was somewhere else.   
  
Tatsuya takes a bathroom break after that one that really consists of going out into the hallway and listening to the half-muffled sounds of off-key singing from other rooms, rubbing his arms to keep warm in the air conditioning, and checking his phone (nothing new). He can’t go back there now, but he’s about to anyway because he can’t stay here forever sulking. Part of being mature about this is acknowledging that he’s not over Taiga and he won’t be for a while, but being gracious about it and civil to Taiga. He curls his hand into a fist, then lets it go. The door to their room opens.  
  
“Hey,” says Taiga, after the door swings closed behind him and the power chords fade into the background.  
  
“Hey,” says Tatsuya. “I was just about to go back in.”  
  
Taiga looks at him, not folding his arms over his chest but mentally doing it; his face is enough to tell Tatsuya that Taiga’s disappointed, once again, in his inability to improve and just be transparent.   
  
“I’m sorry every song’s about you,” says Tatsuya (he is; he’d do it over if he could).  
  
Taiga exhales, taking a step forward. “Did you mean it?”  
  
Tatsuya nods (Taiga already knows; he’s got nothing to lose).   
  
“Then,” says Taiga. “Maybe this isn’t the best time, and I understand if you still don’t want to, but.”  
  
He leans forward and kisses Tatsuya, soft and tender the way they’d been all the way back at the start, the way they’d been up through the end if Tatsuya quits lying to himself for once, the way Taiga had always wanted to kiss him and Tatsuya had rarely let himself accept, but, this time. Maybe it’s the beer and the muffled background music, enough to make him imagine they’re in the spot in the teen movie when the hero and the love interest share a special moment at the school dance. Maybe it’s that, after everything, Taiga’s still doing this. Maybe he’s too tired not to give in anymore. And maybe it’s not the best time for them, but maybe there never is one and this is all they have, and either way, Tatsuya kisses him back.

* * *

2\. may the bridges i have burned light my way back home

Tatsuya’s woken up with someone else in his bed before, but in this context it’s never been Taiga. He can’t say he hasn’t wanted it to be (sometimes, every time but he always lets that fade away before it can get too clear and forceful) but Taiga’s always been unattainable, so far out of reach that even Tatsuya’s depth perception can’t lie to him and say he’s closer. He’s always been at the end of Tatsuya’s long since burned out and gutted bridges, smoking edges over chasms, someone Tatsuya had maybe once had a shot with but he’d blown it all playing his worst hand, and he’s had to live with the consequences.  
  
Taiga shifts in his sleep, his hand curling at the edge of the covers and Tatsuya looks at him, lets himself for the first time in ten years it’s not a stolen glance from the corner of his eye or an assessment of words where all of this physical stuff goes out the window. This is the first time he’s really let himself look since Taiga got really attractive, and still, even though Tatsuya’s noticed it all, separately filed away in a disorganized section of the back of his mind, damn. The set of his jaw, the shape of his face, the slope of his nose, his eyelids delicate, even the forked outline of his eyebrows—there’s nothing particular in any one of those singular features, but together they make a very nice picture. Tatsuya’s struck by the desire to kiss him again, without waking him up.  
  
It’s stupid. It’s not like Tatsuya can pretend Taiga doesn’t want it anymore, but he’d said he’s in this for the long haul and it’s not the kind of promise he’d make if he didn’t mean it. Even if this doesn’t work out, if Tatsuya fucks up too hard (it’s difficult not to see them as dangling off a precipice right now, what with all their past has set them up to be) they’ll still have a while to kiss and touch and hold and flirt, but the urgency is tingling in Tatsuya’s mouth. Maybe it’s all the years of pent-up want he hadn’t really let himself feel, instead stuffing it away in the corner of his mind and kissing someone else. (Taiga would probably say it’s not something he needs to make up for, but it feels an awful lot like it is.) Taiga stirs again, opens his eyes, and blinks up at Tatsuya looking at him; Tatsuya doesn’t move (he’s been caught now; he can’t duck away).  
  
Taiga reaches for his hand, smiling like a supernova. “Hey. You’re here.”  
  
"I'm here,” Tatsuya says, squeezing his hand.  
  
Taiga’s smile seems to grow even brighter, as if he always had been, like Tatsuya had never put a divide between them and burned the bridges, or as if the light from the fires had led them to each other, Tatsuya’s figure dark against the flames and Taiga shining brighter.

* * *

3\. you and i were fireworks

They were fireworks, once, until Tatsuya had exploded, setting off Taiga in a chain reaction of smoke and light, the closest thing to stars that Taiga could see in the smoggy Los Angeles night. It’s strange to think of then and there, metaphorical fireworks that had really been words and blows and feelings, bubbling up and spewing everywhere like volcanoes (maybe that comparison is more apt), strange when they’re halfway around the world and staring up at the festival fireworks, hands at their sides and fingers brushing, cone of cotton candy in Taiga’s hand. Tatsuya leans over to bite some off; blue sugar sticks to his lips and Taiga smiles.   
  
They’d gotten cotton candy at a baseball game once when they’d went as kids, mouths and fingers sticky with pink and blue and mixed purple, a feeling that Taiga couldn’t quite scrub off himself even days afterward. And again he’s thinking of back then, something idealized in his mind but still not quite as good as the sharp reality of right here, right now. Taiga sighs.  
  
“What’s up?” says Tatsuya.   
  
Taiga shrugs. “Just thinking about when we were kids.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
Tatsuya’s fingers bump Taiga’s again, sliding between them; Taiga catches them this time and holds on.   
  
“Remember when we got that cotton candy at the baseball game?”  
  
“I do,” says Tatsuya, lips curling like smoke into a smile.   
  
Taiga takes another mouthful of cotton candy; the sticky sweetness of the spun sugar melts on his tongue and sticks to the back of his teeth. Another round of fireworks explodes into the air above them, and Tatsuya’s still smiling, soft and fond. Taiga holds out the cotton candy again, but Tatsuya shakes his head this time.  
  
“I’m good.”  
  
“You sure?”  
  
Tatsuya nods. Farther down the riverbank a pair of children run, chasing each other and shrieking; a harried parent follows, glued to a cell phone. Taiga ducks his head in and kisses Tatsuya quickly; he pulls away and there’s a new blue smudge on Tatsuya’s mouth.   
  
“I thought you’d wait for the next round of fireworks,” says Tatsuya. “But I guess that’s a little cliche.”  
  
“Doesn’t mean I won’t do it then,” says Taiga.   
  
He does, longer this time, almost dropping the cotton candy in favor of reaching for Tatsuya’s other hand. The fireworks are still exploding, red and green and blue and white among the stars that they can see out here.


	44. nijihimu, galileo galilei songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12145641#cmt12145641)
> 
> 9/9

1\. good shoes

“I think I might go out for my school team,” Shuuzou says, releasing all of his breath.   
  
(It’s more than that; he’s already signed up for it and he’s not so chickenshit as to cross his name off the list or not show up. He’s going to do it, he’s just put off telling Tatsuya for now good reason for however fucking long.)  
  
On the laptop screen, Tatsuya smiles. “Really? That’s great, Shuu. You’ve been playing a lot more streetball lately, right?”  
  
Shuuzou nods (it’s rhetorical, anyway; he’s talked too much about it to Tatsuya already, late texts from when he’s been out for hours working on his drive, his shot, his dribble). That’s been more in preparation, ramping his ass back up into gear; streeetball is fun but what he really misses is organized basketball, the feeling of a team to get back to, to hold up and receive support from in a positive feedback loop, the sense of a certain kind of connection, shared goals and going all-in to get there. Realistically, a team’s not always this way; his school’s might not be. But even the most fractured teams have some of that; even if Shuuzou makes the team and doesn’t like any of his teammates it’ll still be something. Not necessarily what he’d found his first year of middle school and beyond, or what Tatsuya has now (and Shuuzou can’t even begin to state how proud he is of Tatsuya becoming captain and leading Yosen to a pretty damn good record, honing his passing and stealing, an array of huge Yosen forwards rising up behind him).   
  
“When are the tryouts?” says Tatsuya.  
  
“First round’s in a week and a half.”  
  
Tatsuya leans forward. “You should get new shoes. Break them in so you’re comfortable for the tryouts.”  
  
Shuuzou grins; he can’t help letting it escape. He misses buying new sneakers so much, but can’t ever seem to justify the cost to himself since he doesn’t play seriously (his current pair are off-brand and on sale, and a little bit beat up). They have larger foot sizes over here, too (at least more often than in Tokyo); sometimes Shuuzou lets himself look. And they have money; he’s earned some spare cash hustling basketball and babysitting just in case and this is kind of a case.  
  
“Yeah, I should.”  
  
Tatsuya sighs, leaning back in his desk chair; Shuuzou can see the school logo on his t-shirt properly. “I wish I could be there to go with you.”  
  
(Shuuzou does, too; he wishes Tatsuya were here for a million reasons that come before shoe-shopping, but even Tatsuya who gets so easily bored in stores and isn’t much of a sneakerhead loves looking at basketball sneakers and convincing Shuuzou to try on pricier or more ridiculous models.)  
  
“I guess I'll just have to make the team, then,” says Shuuzou. “That way, when you come home and I need another pair, we can go together.”  
  
“I’d like that," says Tatsuya.

* * *

2\. circle game

There’s something soothing about watching a basketball circle around the rim before dropping in, like rainwater in the spring flowing down the gutter in the street. Maybe it’s because out here in LA this is the closest thing Shuuzou gets to a spring downpour. It rains more now than it had when he’d arrived, in the middle of a drought that clogged his throat with dust and dryness, but it’s still nothing like the rainy season back in Tokyo when everything turns green under the clear curtains of mist and fog. Or maybe it's just that it’s basketball.  
  
If he were Tatsuya, it would probably be basketball; if he were Tatsuya he wouldn’t get stupidly homesick at the wrong time (though, Tatsuya did move here from somewhere else a long time ago; Shuuzou wonders how much he remembers or misses about it but it’s just another thing that feels like it’s not his place to ask). There’s something soothing in a different way about watching Tatsuya’s shots; they’re all decisive, swishing through the net or bouncing off the backboard, none of this in-between falling type thing. It’s a little like the way Tatsuya seems to see the world in a dichotomy, no shades of uncertainty, soaring or falling, heaven or hell. Some idiom about hand grenades comes into his mind when he thinks about it more, something he’d learned in introductory English but hadn’t remembered well enough to use.   
  
“What’s that thing people say about hand grenades?” he asks Tatsuya, in Japanese because he’s not entirely sure how to say hand grenades in English.  
  
Tatsuya tilts his head, pausing for a moment. “Almost only really counts in horseshoes and hand grenades?”  
  
He repeats it in English; it sounds much better that way. Shuuzou nods.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Just thinking about the general sentiment, I guess.”  
  
“It’s pretty true,” says Tatsuya, spinning the basketball on his finger. “Second place is the first to lose, and all of that.”  
  
“Yeah, but...I don't know,” says Shuuzou. “There are some things where you’re not going to come in first.”  
  
“You don’t know until you try,” says Tatsuya, dribbling the ball between his legs and coming up in a jumper.  
  
He nails it, clean and simple and smooth. Shuuzou’s not going to argue it any further right now, so he claps Tatsuya on the shoulder, brushing his thumb over the exposed skin at Tatsuya’s neckline. Tatsuya leans into the touch, ever so fractionally, and that makes Shuuzou feel a bit better for now.

* * *

3\. rain followed

Shuu comes to visit Tatsuya in Akita, and it’s overcast and threatening rain the whole weekend. Light fog cloaks the tops of the trees and settles over the river, fuzzing over the city buildings in the distance from Tatsuya’s dorm room window. Maybe it’s better this way, that he doesn’t have to feel like they should be outside and doing something, that he should show Shuu around; the choice between that and staying inside like this already made for him.  
  
It’s cool; the humidity’s been a problem lately but not too much, and they can leave the window open while Tatsuya sits on the sill and leans back, ignores the pull on the bottom of the pane digging into his back. He pulls Shuu in betewen his legs, pressing kisses all over his jaw and the razor burn that’s still there (and that’s new, in the last almost-year since they’d seen each other). Shuu hums, his hands resting around Tatsuya’s waist, something he’d always waited to do until he was sure Tatsuya wouldn’t jerk away. Even now, it feels a little too intimate if Tatsuya thinks about it too much, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to make this harder all over again, after the distance has made him so comfortable with the idea of longing for Shuu, with himself and what he wants, regardless of how much he deserves.   
  
Shuu thumbs over the fabric dividing his hands from the skin over Tatsuya’s rib cage; Tatsuya sighs and kisses his mouth. It’s comforting to know that even after all this time apart, they still fit together the same (he’d never tell Shuu, but he’d worried; he’d thought that maybe inviting Shuu out here had been against his better judgement until he’d arrived and maybe it still is but he’s enjoying the shit out of it anyway). Shuu pulls closer, deepening the kiss; his hands slide up to cup Tatsuya's jaw and tap the shell of his ears and Tatsuya wraps his legs around Shuu’s waist. It’s stupid to want Shuu to pick him up and carry him to the bed, but as soon as he has that thought Shuu goes ahead and does it (Tatsuya hasn’t said anything in admiration of his greater muscle tone yet, but damn.) They land on the bed, Shuu falling on top of him and kissing Tatsuya’s nose. Tatsuya opens his eyes; Shuu’s smiling at him almost giddily and it’s contagious; Tatsuya’s own features betray him and soften into a silly smile.   
  
It rains in the window while they sleep afterward; if it’s between peeling windowsill paint in the dorm room or staying in Shuu’s arms, that’s not a choice at all.

* * *

4\. to the one listening to this rotten voice

It had been hard in the beginning to get Tatsuya to even tell Shuuzou he had games, or when they were; he’d had to get them out of him like the nut from a stubborn pistachio nearly sealed shut, splitting Shuuzou’s thumbnails just from trying. Then it had been hard to get him to brag about the wins, and his own part; he’s not overly-humble but it’s somehow something else that makes the distance harder. Shuuzou fills the silences with chatter about his siblings, his own street games; he pushes from the side and eventually Tatsuya gives in and tells him a little bit more.  
  
And, well, Shuuzou’s from Tokyo; he’d gone to an elite basketball middle school. He knows all about the Winter Cup. That much Tatsuya can’t hide, and he talks about shutouts, early matchups that sound like easy wins, though Tatsuya refuses to call them that.   
  
He doesn't call after the Seirin game, and Shuuzou figures it out pretty quickly. His fingers itch to bang out a text to Alex and ask her, but he already knows the answer. He calls, leaves a message asking Tatsuya to call him back, and waits.  
  
The phone rings in the middle of the night.  
  
“Hey,” says Tatsuya.  
  
His voice sounds cracked and broken, and it’s not just the static over the radio waves between them and, oh, Shuuzou aches to be there, wherever in Tokyo Tatsuya might be, whatever hotel room, to hug him close until he stops resisting; this is how Tatsuya sounds when he’s been trying not to cry for hours and it kills Shuuzou that he recognizes it so well, even over a phone line.  
  
“Hey,” says Shuuzou.  
  
“We lost,” says Tatsuya.  
  
There is more to it than that, like there always is with Tatsuya, but Shuuzou waits.  
  
“I’ll be okay,” says Tatsuya, but his voice cracks even more, blistering like the skin on a roasted tomato.   
  
Shuuzou’s got no reason to believe him, except. He’s not saying he’s okay now; he hadn’t waited for Shuuzou to ask; he’d preempted it with his own emotions before pretending Shuuzou wouldn’t care about them. And maybe it’s a little bit that Shuuzou wants to believe, because his alternative across this distance is basically nothing, but he does, anyway.  
  
“Okay,” Shuuzou says.  
  
They stay on the line a bit longer, just breathing; Shuuzou drifts off with the call still going, the phone warm in his grip.

* * *

5\. hello goodbye

They are, Shuuzou thinks, like ships that pass in the night, him and Tatsuya. He’d left, a year and change ago, to come here from Japan. Tomorrow, Tatsuya’s going back, alone, leaving Shuuzou behind across a divide he knows all too well from both sides (his parents over in LA then, his old life over in Tokyo now, so far away in so many ways). There was such a small chance of them meeting, especially as early as they did, and yet. They had.  
  
They are like ships that pass in the night, cutting the ocean water slowly with barnacle-encrusted hulls, Tatsuya’s figurehead a beautiful mermaid and Shuuzou’s something a bit more visibly rough (doesn’t mean Tatsuya’s not a pirate, quick with a sword). There is only empty wind through their sails, pulling; there is nothing but open water at either end, and yet Shuuzou wants to set down his anchor and stay, pull Tatsuya into his orbit.   
  
It’s impossible when Tatsuya his his sights set on the other end of the telescope, the land so far away Shuuzou’s not quite sure if it’s a mirage (or if it wasn’t one to begin with, if he hadn’t been born in the sea, out here and alone). Or maybe it’s something beyond that, something Shuuzou can’t see or reach, an idea locked away in the tightest-secured vault of Tatsuya’s mind. Shuuzou can’t reverse his course now, cannot turn the tides quickly enough, but if there was some way he could—not make Tatsuya stay; he believes him completely when Tatsuya says there’s something over there he needs to do, to get behind him and move on (though whether he can or not is a different story; maybe either way he has to try)—make him agree that this is not nothing, that the two of them mattered. Do matter.  
  
Shuuzou is sixteen (seventeen in July, but who’s counting); he knows he’s young. But he knows that this can’t be it, even if Tatsuya pulls away with the strongest force he can muster. Even if the wind’s going in the right direction, if the brine washes Tatsuya toward his future, Shuuzou will find some way—not now, maybe, but sometime, somehow—to follow him. To prove this isn’t just a quick hello, goodbye, I’m never seeing you again.  
  
So he doesn’t say goodbye at the airport, and maybe that’s cheating. Instead he hugs Tatsuya tightly until Tatsuya sinks into his grip like quicksand, and whispers a selfish, “don’t forget me” because it’s the best he can do for now.

* * *

6\. whale bone

 _I think we should call it quits._  
  
Shuuzou looks at the text message; his eyes start to blur all over again. Fuck. He could scroll through the ensuing argument, his own thoughts that they shouldn’t, attempts at asking Tatsuya why, how he could help (he’d called; Tatsuya wouldn’t pick up) and the blatant pushback from Tatsuya, even worse than it is in person. At least when he’s physically there, Shuuzou can look at him, see him, try and reach for his hand, let his voice speak in real time.   
  
There is none of that with this. Tatsuya had tried to stay clinical, focused, the diea Shuuzou couldn’t talk him out of, that now, after four months of trying to do this cross-continental relationship thing, out of nowhere—well, it’s never out of nowhere with Tatsuya. Even when it seems like it is it’s because something's resurfaced his issues, debris and whale bones floating to the churning top of his mind, pushing him headlong off course, making him shut down, close himself off, deny himself everything, reminding him how much he hates himself.  
  
And now this. Shuuzou’s pretty sure he hadn’t done something; it must be whatever Tatsuya’s chasing, whatever basketball thing related to the chain around his neck like a miniature hoop, whatever complicated web he’s long-since woven himself into. Tatsuya’s not pushing Shuuzou away to hurt him, not as an end goal in and of itself; he’s only hurting Shuuzou so he can hate himself all the more for it, and that’s why Shuuzou can’t say. If Tatsuya won’t stop himself from being disgusted with his own every action, Shuuzou won’t give him any fuel with which to burn himself up. It’s a tough line to walk, blurred even more when they’re this far apart, when Shuuzou can’t hear his voice.  
  
He wants to hurl his phone into the ocean, smash it on a rock or a piece of garbage floating in the shallow water, hurt it the way he wants to hurt something, destroy it the way he wants to destroy whatever’s still feeding Tatsuya’s self-loathing and show him all the wonderful things there are about him, as many as there are bones in a whale.  
  
He looks down at the screen of his phone again.  
  
 _Please, give me another chance. Let’s talk._  
  
He’s not going to give up so easily, because Tatsuya sure as shit won’t, either.

* * *

7\. drop of a star

  
Shuu looks at Tatsuya sometimes, when he thinks Tatsuya’s not looking, with awe in his eyes, almost. He used to be better at hiding it, before Tatsuya left, but back then Tatsuya never really knew how to handle it. He still doesn’t now, not as much; Shuu knows him, his messy self, the flaws he tries to hide or gloss over, and he still looks at Tatsuya like this, like he’s the drop of a star or something.  
  
It’s flattering, in a way. Tatsuya knows he’s pretty, but this isn’t just because of that; this is so many things, the same stuff that makes Shuu hold him close at night, suggest they go bike-riding again, play ten one-on-ones in a row with him even when he’s dead tired because he knows Tatsuya wants to (and Tatsuya tries not to abuse that privilege too much, really; he can tell when Shuu’s hitting his limits and usually stops before they get very near the edge).   
  
Shuu has seen him fight; Shuu hates fighting and avoids it if he can, but he will, poison on his face as if it kills him a little bit more each time. Tatsuya has no such hatred for the action, only for himself afterwards when the violence clings to him like plastic wrap tangled on its roll, the blood on his knuckles, the bruises all over his body, the sweat stickier and more sinister than that which clings to him on a humid day, or after basketball practice. Shuu has seen Tatsuya do this, no reservations, and still looks at him like that.  
  
“How long?” Tatsuya asks, looking past Shuu, into the late-afternoon sun, shielding his eye.  
  
“Until you believe it,” Shuu says. “Because you are.”  
  
He is not; there are still some ugly parts of him, gaping black holes that Shuu can’t see, that he doesn’t want Shuu to see—he wants Shuu to think well of him, but not this well; it’s a paradox that tears him up sometimes.   
  
“I’m not like that.”  
  
Shuu kisses him, rough and wanting, and this is the language Tatsuya knows how to speak, the debate he knows how to win, even if Shuu won’t concede on the other. Shuu’s fingertips graze his waist, skim up his torso, fist into his hair, and Tatsuya wants to melt and cry. Instead, he just kisses back, long and fierce; if this is all Shuu remembers of him when it’s all over, then it might just be worth it.

* * *

8\. blue blood

When you have enough money, you can buy class, pay to dye your blood navy blue and blend in. You just have to try, and most people don’t try hard enough. It’s not an inborn thing, class; it’s something taught, observed, learned; it’s something Tatsuya’s managed to force his way into one charming smile at a time.  
  
“I don’t like these rich-people things,” Shuuzou says.   
  
“I’d rather play basketball,” Tatsuya says, as close as Shuuzou’s going to hear for an agreement. “But it’s for a good cause.”  
  
Shuuzou wonders if that good cause is the charity and the associated tax breaks or Tatsuya forcing him into another goddamn suit and pouring him a little extra wine, footsie under the table, bread stuffed in his mouth when no one’s looking. And, to be honest, there’s a hell of a lot to be said for all of that, but—still.  
  
Shuuzou doesn’t like wearing cufflinks or a tie; it reminds him too much of the grind of the season, the worst part, the part with no basketball and endless inane questions from reporters and having to smile his way through interviews when he’s dead on his feet after three fucking overtimes in the playoffs.   
  
Tatsuya has no such associations, or if he does he’s buried them deep tonight. Or maybe it’s just that he’s a fucking masochist sometimes, and he loves dragging Shuuzou along for the ride.   
  
“Come,” Tatsuya says, pulling on Shuuzou’s hand, and Shuuzou can smell the expensive cologne Tatsuya only ever wears for him, in the middle of the season when they’re both exhausted but manage to have a weeknight when they’re both at home, in the same borough of the same city, same room of the same building. It smells a little like weightlessness, if Shuuzou’s being poetic.  
  
Tatsuya lets him kiss all over in the elevator, the long ride down from the twenty-second floor; it’s too old to have cameras and there’s usually no attendant; it gives them privacy until the door opens at six. But there’s no one there; they must have given up and taken the stairs or forgotten something in the apartment. Shuuzou pushes the door close button and Tatsuya leans up for another kiss, pressing their bodies together.   
  
Their photo ends up in the style section of the Sunday paper, Shuuzou’s arm around Tatsuya’s waist, both of them smiling, and Shuuzou won’t admit it out loud but Tatsuya’s smirk is enough to say he knows Shuuzou doesn’t think this whole rich-people thing is all that bad.

* * *

9\. control tower

Shuu is the focal point of the USC team, the control tower. He might not be the one suggesting or running the plays, but he’s the one who broadcasts, gets the rest of the team to fall in synchronicity around him. Tatsuya’s the point guard, the one, the smaller guy with the explosive drives and sharp plays; his passes are practiced, precise, go straight to Shuu on the wing and then out, back to him, to another player. It’s how they’ve run the thing for two and a half years; it’s how they’ll keep running it until Shuu graduates.  
  
Tatsuya’s the one who makes the comparison, in an interview with some student publication. “You know Shuu’s like our broadcast tower,” he says, with a smile, and the reporter grips her microphone a little tighter.  
  
It makes it through the publication, onto twitter, into the scouting reports.  
  
“Shuuzou Nijimura’s been compared by his point guard to a control tower,” says one of the announcers (still butchering the pronunciation of Shuu’s name; seriously, how hard is it when you get a guide before the season?), a former player who’s got a bad suit made for someone two sizes smaller than he is (wishful thinking?) and a shitty toupee.   
  
Shuu buries his face in the hotel pillow and next to him, Tatsuya laughs.  
  
“It’s true, you know,” says Tatsuya.  
  
“How do you even think of these things?” says Shuu.  
  
“It’s a compliment,” says Tatsuya. “I trust you out there, letting me land safely and stuff.”  
  
It’s not meant out of context, but Shuu rolls over and looks up at Tatsuya, his bangs falling crooked over his forehead. Tatsuya would laugh, but Shuu’s face is tender, softer than max-thread-count sheets; his rough hand covers Tatsuya’s, and, oh.  
  
“You know I hate flying,” Shuu says, quiet; it’s a little lighter but, well, Tatsuya knows what he means.  
  
“I know,” says Tatsuya. “But I know you’d help me land anyway.”  
  
Shuu brushes his lips over Tatsuya’s knuckles, turning his hand over and kissing Tatsuya’s palm, the heel of his hand, his wrist.  
  
“I don’t know if I told you how fucking lucky I feel with you,” Shuu says, and Tatsuya feels as if his chest will burst; this is way too good to be true and it always feels this way.  
  
“I’m pretty lucky,” Tatsuya says.  
  
He can barely hear what’s being said on TV, even though neither of them has touched the remote in ages. And then Shuu pulls him down to the bed and Tatsuya forgets that there’s anything else in the world right now than him and Shuu.

 


	45. hikaru/kanako, holiday drinks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11820009#cmt11820009)
> 
> 3/9

1\. valentine's day syrup

Hikaru drenches her waffles in the expensive maple syrup Kanako buys her. Kanako’s parents, on the few occasions they have to eat breakfast with the two of them, are quick to point out how unhealthy and wasteful it is, dropping their favorite passive-aggressive hints that since Kanako’s in medical school now she ought to use her expert opinion to tell Hikaru to dial it down. Kanako smiles and nods and buys Hikaru another bottle when she goes through the current one, because her parents are completely missing the point.   
  
It’s not that it’s healthy, but Hikaru works out and brushes her teeth; she’s back to playing softball on her college team (baseball was fun, but different; the smaller diamond and the larger ball, pitches curving like a cosine through the air have always called to Hikaru more than the glory and recognition she’s gotten from baseball, and Kanako gets it). And Kanako wants to indulge her, simple as that. Maybe that’s what this kind of relationship is, balancing the desire to spoil the other person rotten and doing what’s best for them, and in the scheme of things Kanako’s got nothing else to spend her outrageously-large inheritance from her grandmother on. Why not fancy, imported syrup? Even if it’s not a health benefit, they don’t have to live a rigid lifestyle if they can afford not to (Kanako had spent too much time in the beginning of that first year of high school on the outside looking in at what she’d wanted and had enough room to do not to know that).  
  
She buys Hikaru a new bottle on Valentine’s Day, even though there’s one half-finished and sticky with Hikaru’s syrup-stained fingerprints already in the fridge. The new one’s from a different manufacturer, some kind of Canadian reserve brand.  
  
“Tell me how it is,” Kanako says, pushing up her glasses. “And don’t get me anything until white day.”  
  
Hikaru rolls her eyes. “Please. Here.”  
  
She holds out her fork full of buttery, syrupy waffle. It’s bad; Kanako doesn't need the extra sugar. She bites it off the end, and God this syrup is good (if Hikaru prefers the other stuff, Kanako’s going to buy this one for herself every once in a while).   
  
“Good, right?” says Hikaru, grinning.  
  
She doesn’t wait for Kanako’s answer, lips meeting hers in a sticky, overly-sweet kiss that Kanako doesn’t mind in the slightest.

* * *

2\. midsummer orange juice

When the summer days are this grossly humid and it’s light outside this long, there’s nothing to do after morning practice but collapse in a heap in Kanako’s air-conditioned bedroom. They’d both taken showers in the locker room and they’re already coated in sweat again. Hikaru sighs, leaning back farther into the softness of Kanako’s high-thread-count sheets and the give of her mattress, reaching out with one hand to trace over Kanako’s hipbone through her top, eyes closed.   
  
Kanako jerks back, eyes wide and face red. “Do you want anything to drink? I’ll get orange juice.”  
  
She practically bolts from the room, and Hikaru rolls her shoulders back. It’s always like this; Kanako will be so comfortable with her, kissing or cuddling or even touching a little bit, but at a certain point (always a different one) she just shuts down and deflects. She never says she doesn’t want it or isn’t ready; sometimes she’ll push for it herself when Hikaru’s trying to be considerate and back off, and then Hikaru will try something else again and hit her boundary, arbitrarily moved somewhere it wasn’t before. They need to talk about it; it’s as much Hikaru’s fault as hers (maybe more; Kanako’s clearly uncomfortable) that they haven’t.   
  
Kanako comes back with two glasses, already sweating from the humidity out in the hall. She hands one to Hikaru and takes a cautious sip of her own; her face isn’t as red-flushed as before.  
  
“Hey,” says Hikaru. “If I’m doing something wrong, or if you’re not ready—just tell me, okay? I don’t want to go too fast; I want to know where you’re comfortable stopping so I don’t keep going to far and making you feel bad.”  
  
The glass slips in Kanako’s hand; she catches it before it falls. “I…it’s not that I don’t want to,” she says.  
  
Hikaru raises an eyebrow. “It’s okay if you don’t. I’m not going to think you’re a prude or anything.”  
  
“I do want to!” Kanako says, sitting up straighter. “But I don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t want to get caught in a place where you do, and I…” she trails off.  
  
“I don’t know what I’m doing, either,” says Hikaru. “I’m just trying what I think would be fun, and maybe it is and maybe it isn’t.”  
  
“Oh,” says Kanako, face coloring over again.   
  
“But, like I said,” says Hikaru. “We can slow down and get you to the point where you feel like you do know what you’re doing before we move on. If that works better.”  
  
Kanako nods, short.   
  
“So what do you want to do right now?" says Hikaru. “Like, we don’t have to start doing whatever at this moment, but.”  
  
“I want to kiss you," says Kanako, all in a rush. “I want to work on that.”  
  
“You’re pretty damn good already,” says Hikaru. “But I don’t mind the practice myself.”

* * *

3\. christmas tea

The teahouse is crowded with families and young couples, but there’s a table for two that’s just opened up in the back, and Hikaru and Kanako follow the host and sit down. Kanako takes off her jacket; it’s already warm inside but she’s still looking forward to drinking the tea. Hikaru scoots her chair in and bumps their knees together; she grins in a way that says that was totally on purpose and Kanako smiles back.  
  
Her glasses are fogging up; she scowls as she wipes them with her sleeve and Hikaru laughs.  
  
“Want me to read the menu?”  
  
“I played baseball without glasses, you know,” says Kanako. “I can see how many fingers you’re holding up, too.”  
  
“Aww, too bad,” says Hikaru.   
  
She’s scanning the menu already; Kanako puts her glasses back on and looks at her own. They’ve got the usual selection, blacks and greens and herbals; she’s pretty sure Hikaru’s going to go for chai or oolong.  
  
“Want to split a pot of sencha?” says Hikaru. “They’ve got the good stuff.”  
  
Kanako nods (she’s awfully fond of green tea, and Hikaru knows it). “Should we get a cake, too?”  
  
“Sure,” says Hikaru. “You pick.”  
  
She chooses a strawberry slice with what looks like three centimeters of icing on top from the menu picture, overly-indulgent but, well, it’s Christmas and she’s on a date with her girlfriend.  
  
“You should have worn the green wig,” says Hikaru. “It would be seasonal.”  
  
Kanako snorts. “It definitely makes me look my best.”  
  
Hikaru shrugs. “The first time I thought you were cute was when you were wearing it. Well, that and the baseball uniform.”  
  
She drops that so casually; Kanako’s still not used to hearing it from her in this context. Heat rises to her face, and she wonders when the tea will get here so she can hide it with the steam from the cup.  
  
“Thank you,” she says.   
  
“You’re cute like this, too,” says Hikaru. “The glasses suit your face.”  
  
Kanako wants to both disappear and lean over the table and kiss Hikaru. She settles for bumping her foot under the table, surprising Hikaru (for once).  
  
The tea is good; the cake is sweet but lighter than Hikaru expects; it disappears quickly between the two of them. When the waiter returns with their staff, Kanako moves to her wallet but Hikaru’s quicker, pulling out a few bills.  
  
“My treat,” says Hikaru. “It doesn’t set me back, Rich Kid.”  
  
Hanako’s face heats up; she knows Hikaru’s teasing, but still.   
  
“Merry Christmas,” says Hikaru, hand on her knee under the table. “Let’s go find some mistletoe.”


	46. various knb, school swap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11839977#cmt11839977)
> 
> 3/9

1\. Kise at Touou (Kise/Imayoshi)

“Imayoshichii…” Kise whines, pouting his lips and doing everything short of literally batting his eyelashes.  
  
Imayoshi pats his head, messing up Kise’s carefully-done hair as if on purpose; he’s still reading through the practice schedules and making his own messy notes and terrible drawings (probably still better than Kise’s, if Kise’s being totally honest). He looks up, over his glasses (at least, Kise’s pretty sure he does) and regards Kise with something.  
  
“You want to play power forward?”  
  
Kise nods before he can stop himself; playing on the wing plays more to his versatility but it’s not like he enjoys outside shots as much as being on the inside, under the hoop, stuffing in rebounds. And, well, that’s still being cagey about it; if the goal is to someday pass Aomine what better way is there to compete with him at his own position? It’s tempting; he’s not sure if it’s actually offered (the way Imayoshi’s phrased it is, as always, ambiguous.”  
  
“Maybe we’ll get Aomine for a whole game if we slot you in there,” says Imayoshi.  
  
Kise glares; that’s not funny, treating him like something to be exploited just to get the ace to put in more of an effort (sometimes he wonders if that’s why Imayoshi had recruited him in the first place, and at times like this he almost believes it fully).  
  
“You’re awful,” says Kise.  
  
“You’re cute,” says Imayoshi. “I just want what’s best for the team. I’m not going to play favorites if it costs me the Winter Cup."  
  
“It won’t,” says Kise. “I’m good enough.”  
  
(He’s walked into Imayoshi’s trap; he realizes it as he says the words, but, well. The end result’s going to be the same, and he deserves to be here. They wouldn’t have recruited him at all if he didn’t.)  
  
Imayoshi goes back to scribbling in the margins and Kise moves closer, dropping his head on Imayoshi’s shoulder.  
  
“You going to let me sit in your lap?” says Imayoshi. “I can’t hold you and do this at once, you know.”  
  
It’s true enough, though if Imayoshi really wanted to he probably could. He stands up and Kise sits down in his spot, pulling Imayoshi down into his lap. Imayoshi pats his cheek; it’s probably meant to be condescending but Kise takes it as it is, a definite touch, deft on his skin. If it were anyone else, he’d tell them not to clog his pores, but since it’s Imayoshi it’s not worth it to do. He’d rather read Imayoshi’s snarky notes, anyway.

 

* * *

2\. Aomine at Kirisaki Daīchi (aomura)

 

 “I don’t get it,” says Murasakibara.  
  
“You don’t have to,” says Aomine.  
  
It’s useless to explain this to someone on the outside looking in. It’s not about being sadistic, it’s about the inevitability of crushing people like flies under heels. It’ll happen just by Aomine being himself; he’s seen the same look of crushing despair in too many faces, so many they all look alike at this point and he’s lost count. They’re just indistinguishable, useless nuisances. It’s crueler to try and hold on, to hold himself back for them. Murasakibara ought to know that; maybe he sort of does with the way he says he’ll crush people, but even then.  
  
Murasakibara looks annoyed; he’s the kind of guy who’s smart enough that he doesn’t have to try that hard to understand most of the time, but Aomine doesn’t feel like trying to help him get it.  
  
“Whatever,” says Murasakibara. “It pisses me off, you know.”  
  
Aomine shrugs. He could say Murasakibara and his team piss him off, but really they don’t. They’re on a different plane, not one Aomine’s particularly interested in intersecting with. Maybe it would be fun to play with that serious shooting guard of his, but probably not worth it (though if that’s how the bracket works out they might have to).  
  
“Well,” says Aomine.  
  
Murasakibara cuts him off with a sloppy kiss. “Stop talking, or I'll actually get mad at you.”  
  
It’s a fair point; Aomine would rather kiss than talk right now, too.  
  
-  
  
“I don’t see the end goal,” says Murasakibara, sweeping his hair back into a ponytail. “Why bother to do it if they’re gonna end up that way when you don’t do anything?”  
  
Aomine shrugs. “You know when you catch a mouse on a glue trap?”  
  
Murasakibara wrinkles his nose.  
  
“It’s like, you gotta stomp on it. Otherwise it’ll just sit there, screaming and shitting itself, until it starves.”  
  
“I guess,” says Murasakibara. “I always just made my brother do it.”  
  
“Well, someone’s got to,” says Aomine. “Why not me?”  
  
“Why you?” says Murasakibara.  
  
It’s like he’s arguing just to argue, stubborn and bored; it’s vexing but still kind of something else. Now Aomine’s the one who wants to shut him up and change the topic, avoid this discussion before they’re treading in water twenty feet deep and start to get tired. He kisses Murasakibara, tongue on teeth, and this is something he’s got no trouble understanding.

* * *

3\. Murasakibara at Kirisaki Daīchi (Murasakibara & Hanamiya)

 

Seto and Matsumoto are no match for him, but Murasakibara doesn’t mind sitting out sometimes. It makes him a little bit impatient sometimes (not that he loves basketball with pure-hearted enthusiasm; he’s just good at it), tapping the toe of his sneaker against the floor and looking straight at Hanamiya.  
  
“Respect your coach,” says Hanamiya.  
  
Sometimes Murasakibara wishes he’d gone to Yosen; their coach had seemed just as harsh as Hanamiya but much prettier. He’s told Hanamiya as much, and Hanamiya has asked him if he wants to get smacked. For all of his posturing, Hanamiya is very much not Akashi and so it’s easy not to take him seriously (and, well, it’s not like any of Murasakibara’s teammates really do, either).  
  
He always gets in anyway, even when Hanamiya wants to play the B-Squad and sit back; he knows Murasakibara hates losing and if he needs to he can turn the tide of the game Kirisaki Daiichi’s way singlehandedly. Not that he particularly enjoys it; it’s fun when he doesn’t have to try as hard. He’ll tell that to Hanamiya and Hanamiya will take it as a compliment (he’ll do anything to pad his ego, not that Murasakibara’s not used to people like that).  
  
It usually works, though; he gets his own ass off the bench and goes out and plays, shoots with precision and passes through the spiderweb, himself to Seto (much better at this kind of thing than Kuroko ever was, and he’s under no illusion that the two of them are friends, either) to Murasakibara and back. It gives them flexibility, not quite like Teikou even on the best days, but close enough.  
  
Sometimes Murasakibara wonders how Akashi’s doing in Kyoto with his second-rate superteam; sometimes he plays one of the others and their stupid companions, easily crushed under a foot or under a dunk (or both; he’s learned to be a little bit less picky and doesn’t mind the extra emphasis). They’re all clinging to Teikou in their own ways; Murasakibara supposes his way is that he’s still thinking of them as a set, things that go together. Maybe they do at first glance, but when you look closer, Murasakibara belongs here, in black and green instead of blue and white, no matter what illusions Kuroko (him again) has about teaching them his self-righteous little lessons. A tree splintered by lightning is still dead even if you try and glue it back together, and Murasakibara’s not interested in illusions when he can feel the smack of solid metal hoops under his palms or the tearing of flesh under his foot.


	47. koharu/nene, dialogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11787753#cmt11787753)
> 
> 3/9

1\. I'm so glad you're here

 Koharu hugs Nene tightly before she even gets in hte door, suitcase still hoisted over her shoulder; her fingers catch in the tangles and curls of Nene’s hair and it’s pulling a little harshly, but it’s easily forgiven (even not considering the situation). Koharu pulls back; her eyes are red but alive with sparks.  
  
“You didn’t have to, you know.”  
  
“Yes I did,” says Nene. “You need help.”  
  
It’s a statement, not a question; she dumps her bags in the hallway and surveys the house, wrinkling her nose. There’s gathering clutter and mess; Nene’s willing to bet the dishes are piled up and moldy in the sink and that the bathroom and bedrooms are in similar states. She rolls up her sleeves before even taking off her shoes.  
  
“The fishermen—”  
  
“Are just as worried about your father as you are,” says Nene, in her firmest tone. “They’re staying with him at the hospital in shifts, right?”  
  
Koharu nods. When her head tilts down, the dark circles under her eyes are apparent, like miniature black holes.  
  
“Sleep,” says Nene.  
  
“Nene—”  
  
“I will carry you to bed,” says Nene (what with Koharu’s muscle mass and Nene’s critical lack thereof, it would end up more like Nene dragging her, but, she’d still do it if she had to).  
  
“Fine,” says Koharu.  
  
Nene walks through the house, surveying the damages. She supposes Koharu’s spent most of the time in the hospital with her father, but she’s still eaten and slept and left things in disarray. It’s not as bad as it could be, but Koharu doesn’t need the stress of living in squalor on top of everything else. She stops by Koharu’s room; Koharu’s already fast asleep and it’s hard not to smile at her all sprawled out.  
  
It’s a few hours later when everything’s clean and neat again; Nene’s not sure where everything goes but it should be at least an approximation and it looks better. And she doubts Koharu or her father will be doing much in the way of cooking or housework anytime soon, maybe until her father’s made a complete recovery (and Nene’s going to have to speak to him about how much his daughter worries; he knows it but maybe not well enough to take better care of himself). Nene slips into bed next to Koharu, kissing her cheek; Koharu stirs and snaps awake.  
  
“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers.  
  
Nene hugs her tightly. “Me, too.”

* * *

2\. will we meet again?

 It feels like they’re almost already gone before graduation. All nine starters had departed from the baseball club in the fall; Nene, too, had resigned as manager officially (in reality, she’s still the one doing the recruiting because Coach knows she will and is too lazy to do it himself; he’ll probably do it himself next year after Izumi’s mother bugs him enough). She stays away from the clubhouse; it feels weird and empty without everyone there, with the resignation that they’re all on their way to some future that, if it’s involved with baseball at all, will be very different.  
  
Koharu’s made her own intentions abundantly clear; she’ll be going back home to catch fish in that seaside town and take care of her sick old father. She’d gotten professional and college interest, but it’s all petered out by now. She stands, staunch, a rock against the sea; she’s played her baseball as herself and now she’s done with that.  
  
Nene wishes she had that kind of confidence in her own direction. She’s thought about becoming some kind of professional sports manager or a manga editor, but the reality of those careers is more grueling than it is worthwhile, and with a degree from an elite high school like Kisaragi the world is Nene’s oyster. She refuses to indulge the stupid fantasies that keep worming their way back into her daydreams, like playing housewife for Koharu. She’d get too bored; Koharu might want to go back and settle down but it’s with her tackle box and her old family home, not with Nene. It might be an easier fantasy to let go if Nene had any idea what else she wanted, but instead her mind is dwelling on this, preventing her from choosing a path. Maybe it’s because there’s safety in dwelling on something you can’t have and might not even want, that you don’t have to fear because it’s make-believe.  
  
Nene puts down business as her field of study, goes to cram school, and tries to make the most out of her remaining time with Koharu. If Koharu notices any extra effort on her part, she doesn’t say.  
  
Graduation is harshly sunny. Next to Nene, Mao is already crying; Nene squeezes her hand and Mao smiles through her tears and that’s what pushes Nene over the edge. She can barely see the student speaker through blurry vision; she barely remembers what happens she’s so preoccupied with trying not to cry.  
  
Koharu waits for her behind the clubhouse, tossing a baseball in her hand, looking like she could go out there and play in her school uniform right now, and Nene wants to cry again. She jumps into Koharu’s arms; Koharu's only half-prepared and she drops the ball onto the grass as Nene kisses her.  
  
“Hey,” says Koharu. “It’s, uh.”  
  
“You’re horrible at this,” Nene sobs. “I’m going to miss you so much.”  
  
“Hey,” Koharu says. “I’m not going to forget you just like that, you know.”  
  
“Will we meet again?” (Sometimes Nene can’t help emulating the shoujo protagonists she’s spent so much of her life idolizing, even if shoujo protagonists don’t usually have baseball-playing, fishing, girlfriends who are leaving them behind.)  
  
“You know where I live,” says Koharu. “And I wouldn’t mind if you visited. We’ve got manga and baseball; you won’t get too bored.”  
  
Nene wants to roll her eyes, but she can do that from a distance. She can’t hug Koharu again a plane ride away, so she does it again; Koharu’s elbows are pressing against her awkwardly but she doesn’t care right now.  
  
“Of course I’ll come,” says Nene. “Tomorrow, if you want me.”

* * *

3\. don't go

It’s a hell of a lot easier for the chair to get funding for the baseball team this year, so their training camp’s gotten a major upgrade. It’s hard not to be a little nostalgic for the rough outdoors of last year’s camp, but the facilities are supposed to be the premier thing for athletic training or something (Izumi had tried to explain that she’d had something similar for tennis, Ryo and Yoko hanging on her every word, but Koharu had tuned her out). Either way, they’ve got private rooms and weird dietary restrictions, and it’s hard not to be a little skeptical. 

  
At least the weirdness is something Koharu can share with her teammates; even though Ryo’s impressed she’s a little awestruck with strangeness, and it’s been pretty overwhelming for both Mao and Seira. Nene, on the other hand, seems to take it all in stride; her bubbly sense of wonder balances everything out and as she runs around trying to help the freshmen there’s something about it that feels right and good, that this is the same (slightly swankier) Kisaragi team. And they’re still doing the same drills; the field’s a little greener and the dirt’s tamped down just right but they’re still training damn hard (Coach and Nene have apparently decided that since they’re sleeping on these overstuffed mattresses, they can push each other even harder, and there’s a certain logic to that—which would make more sense if Coach did more than lie around and ask Ryo how to get with her mom).  
  
And Koharu and Nene, well. They’ve been this sort of thing for a while, since the off-season, through the school year. It’s mostly been stolen kisses after class, lunchtime out by the clubhouse where they can just be, bumping each other’s shoulders and arguing about pro baseball, Koharu stealing from Nene’s bento. She can’t say she’s not looking forward to this trip for that kind of reason, too, but that soon departs from her mind when she’s so tired after dinner the first day she crawls into bed and can barely wake up, feeling sore and heavy, the next morning.  
  
After a few days she gets used to it, though; her muscles are still protesting and she’s still weary, but it’s the good kind of feeling when she knows she’s going to get results. Already her bat speed’s up; her line drives are going harder and faster; her throws feel good and solid. It’s the same with everyone; Mao had gunned down Seira going for second the other day, and the next time up Seira had beaten her out, running harder and smarter. They’re pushing each other to do better, with Nene as their backbone, coordinating all of their skills and taking them from drill to drill.  
  
Nene’s pretty tired, too; she’s still no baseball player but she’s good enough to demonstrate, and she’s yelling her lungs out every day and taking a microscope to everyone’s stance, swing, throwing motion; she makes the new outfielders do crow’s hops all one afternoon, watching their legs while rattling off instructions about the drop in Seira’s shoulder when she throws and how Kanako’s taking too many shortcuts in the field.  
  
She and Koharu are talking about hitting a curveball all through dinner, and even when it’s over they’re far from finished. Their voices fall softer as they walk through the halls to Koharu’s room, and Koharu pulls it one.  
  
“Come in?”  
  
She doesn’t mean necessarily to do anything but, well, if it happens it happens. They sit down on the bed, Koharu twining Nene’s fingers in hers, continuing to explain the way a curve looks when it’s coming in, the way she swings over it and it seems to bend the light around it. Nene shifts closer, looking into her eyes. Now is the moment in one of Nene’s cheesy comics that the love interest kisses the heroine, and Koharu doesn’t mind playing that kind of role. She pulls back; Nene’s smiling, her legs swinging on the edge of the bed.  
  
“Should I go now?”  
  
“Don’t go. Talk with me more about curveballs.”  
  
It comes out weird, but Nene laughs, not in a bad way. “Sure.”


	48. aokise lite(?) horror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12145385#cmt12145385)
> 
> 6/9

1\. stop chewing on his heart

 “Stop chewing on his heart,” Momoi had said.   
  
She’d meant it in the figurative sense, deliciously ironic considering what’s on Kise’s plate now (what he’d been planning on having there since before he’d met Momoi, since the moment he’d seen Aomine Daiki and though how delicious he’d be). He is a little sinewy, but delicate, like venison; the key as always is in the preparation, not in the meat itself.   
  
He’d fried Aomine’s brain, put his kidneys in a pie, roasted the right thigh over a spit until all the flesh had curled up and fallen into the bottom, sizzling and dripping with fat (Even as an athlete, he’d had a lot the way all humans do, in the way that makes them such an addicting delicacy). And now, he’d served up the heart, aorta carved out, blood splattered all over Kise’s gloves (a shame). He’s not sure what to do with the marrow, but he’s also not going to take time out of his enjoyment of Aomine’s heart with matters like that. There’s only one of these, and it’s been his since barely after he’d met Aomine.  
  
Kise really does miss the companionship Aomine had given him, a bit pathetic in his attentions on Kise’s face and body, but a little bit different than the rest. He’d been a phenomenal physical specimen; what’s left of him still is, but that will dwindle, too rich not to eat while it’s close to fresh. He had been fun to play with, fun enough for Kise to put it off several times. It’ll be a while until, if ever, he finds someone like Aomine again. But the whole purpose of special people is to eat them; he can’t have his cake and eat it too, and Kise’s always so very hungry. He cuts off another bite-sized piece of the heart; it’s smooth and melts under his teeth and tongue, the way Aomine himself had, into a moaning mess, when Kise had given him blow jobs (God, his body had been so warm; he could taste the flesh and it had been so, so tempting to bite through).   
  
But Kise had waited, and his patience has been rewarded with this, prolonged enjoyment of Aomine’s body from the oven to his mouth, much better that a momentary, bloody mess ever would have. Soon, he will stop chewing on Aomine’s heart, because there will be no more left to put in his mouth, and that’s the only reason why.  
  


* * *

2\. i don't know how to fill this chest cavity

 Kise was born without a heart. It’s a defect, but not one that magic doesn’t work around, and sometimes people can’t tell that there’s a cavity in his chest that can’t be filled, only empty veins under his skin. He doesn't bleed; he doesn’t circulate; he doesn’t react to the temperature. He’s not quite a vampire (they have blood, even if they have to take from others) but they still call him a freak when they find out.   
  
He never means for it to happen with Aomine. They’re supposed to touch and kiss and even go further; there’s nothing preventing that. They can press their bodies together and Kise can hear Aomine’s pulse, hammering cruelly like a piano in his head, as if to say that he could have this too; he should have it. There is no one heartless in his family but him, no one different. (Then again, being different is another way of saying he’s special, and Kise likes to think he’s special in every way.)   
  
They can’t have sex; Kise’s determined not to go there. He can come, but he doesn’t get hard and more than anything else that would give it away. He never intends to go that far, but he’s breathless and Aomine’s hand is down his pants and then his cock is in Aomine’s mouth, still soft despite how good it feels. Aomine sucks; Kise’s got a couple of moments to figure it out but he doesn’t, and Aomine pulls back just when the pleasure’s really starting to build.  
  
“Are you…you know?” Aomine says. “Like, do you need Viagra?”  
  
Kise’s lips twist into a smile. Might as well tell him now. “That won’t work on me. I don’t have a heart; I don’t have blood.”  
  
Aomine blinks. “Oh. Then does this feel good?”  
  
“Yes."  
  
Aomine doesn’t even have to be told outright that Kise wants his mouth right back around his dick five seconds ago (such a good boy).   
  
After they’re done, Aomine puts his hand over the left side of Kise’s chest, where there’s only emptiness behind his ribcage.   
  
“Nothing,” says Aomine. “Since you don’t bleed, could you open it up and put something there?”  
  
Kise snorts. “Like what? The thing that tin man in _The Wizard of Oz_ did?”  
  
“I don’t know,” says Aomine. “Just curious.”  
  
“I don’t know how to fill this chest cavity,” says Kise. “Bit I don’t think I need to.”  
  
“You’re right,” says Aomine, kissing him sloppy on the mouth.   
  


* * *

3\. i'm not sure if i can stop eating glass

 The crunch of the glass under Kise’s teeth used to make Aomine wince. It used to make him think about Kise’s tongue, flayed and cut into pieces, his throat ripped from the inside out, his teeth ripped out from his gums they’re bleeding so much (his gums rotting out from glass stuck inside, his teeth falling out—maybe it’s kind of hot to think about, but not as something permanent to someone so pretty).   
  
Now Aomine’s just used to it, like he’s used to the glow of Kise’s cateyes following him, like he’s used to seeing the broken glassware strewn about the house, like he’s used to being careful not to step on it (he had, once, gotten a shard of an old jar stick in his heel; Kise had sucked it out and swallowed down the bloodstained blue piece, asking Aomine if he was sure there wasn’t any more).  
  
“I’m not sure if I can stop eating glass,” Kise had said at the time.  
  
Aomine had been quite sure that Kise couldn’t, and that he can’t now.  
  
It’s too entrenched within him, like a bullet drilled in to hit the bone, stuck in his life. He can’t wean himself off of it, not when there’s glass everywhere; he can’t quit cold turkey because the hole it would leave would be too big (sometimes Aomine thinks he does intend to quit; he sweeps the floors and gathers some of the glass into the can and then he’s munching on the second-best vase that is now no longer whole).  
  
Aomine used to dream about the glass cutting Kise apart, breaking his stomach or his intestines until the blood had spilled out of his eye sockets and he’d screamed and screamed until he’d reached for his cell phone and eaten off the screen protector. That bit had seemed too real; Aomine had woken up fumbling around for both of their phones, cables twined together and protectors mercifully still in place.   
  
Aomine jokes that Kise’s a recycling bin sometimes, handing him an empty wine bottle to snack on; Kise never laughs but sometimes smiles, kisses Aomine with shards still stuck to his lips. Then he licks them afterward until they’re clean and takes another hunk off the bottle. Aomine can only watch, transfixed, the curve and shine vanishing between Kise’s pouted pink lips all over again.  
  
“Did you want any, Aominecchi?”  
  
“No,” says Aomine.  
  
“Good. I’m not sharing,” says Kise.  
  


* * *

4\. i cried a bit into your ribs

 It’s a little ironic, how Kise was never as much a crier as Aomine had been, how Aomine would cry at stupid movies and when he was tired or when the local feral cat had died, almost pathetic if the emotion spilling all over his face and washing away the tough-guy veneer hadn’t been so interesting to watch. It’s a little ironic, because Kise’s the one crying now, into Aomine’s ribs, the last racks of meat left on what little remains of his body by now.  
  
He’d dragged Aomine out, a year and a half, begun saving him for special occasions, when he’d almost missed his company. But humans are finite; life is finite and then the body is, no matter how much you freeze and preserve, and Aomine is no one good barbecue away from being gone completely. He’s the best set of meals Kise’s ever had, bar none; it will be so hard to be satisfied by anyone now. Eating other people isn’t the same at all (he thinks about Kuroko’s skinny arm, deplorable, still in the back of the fridge) and even the ones he’s been with since Aomine are sexually unsatisfying. They don’t yield to Kise the right way; maybe Kise should have had Aomine’s ass bronzed and then carved out of rubber to use as a sex toy, but even he’s not that pathetic.   
  
“Stop crying,” he says aloud. “You’l spoil the meat.”  
  
Today isn’t a good day for barbecue; back when there was more of Aomine, limbs and organs and a recognizable human form, he would have grilled some to make himself feel better but now it’s only going to make it worse. All good things come to an end; Kise knows that all too well by now. But still.  
  
He needs pursuit, a chase, to make him feel better; even if he can’t find another Aomine he can find someone close enough that it’ll taste good when he forgets the tenderness of Aomine in his mouth, that meat under his teeth, scraped from the bone. Because one day he will. But for now, he doesn’t want to; he lifts the torso tenderly, the fat still stuck to Aomine’s hipbones and the meat on his ribs, the skeleton hardened and yellow-white-cream (perhaps a cream sauce for the ribs wouldn’t be a bad idea) and places him back in the freezer.  
  
“Sweet dreams,” he whispers, before closing the drawer.

* * *

5\. you always laugh at fires

 Aomine had always laughed at fires. It’s as if he thought he was a being of pure water, below the freezing point but still liquid, untouchable (and yes, humans are mostly made of water, but they still burn crisp and steaming). It had made him so easy to kill, so easy to pick a method. And, after all, guns and knives are too messy, too bloody; poison is uncivilized. The flame is art, his paintbrush, his pigment.  
  
He watches the flesh burn, char, melt from Aomine’s bones; he has long since given up screaming (or maybe he can’t; perhaps his throat and tongue have already burned off, perhaps his lungs are filled with ash like a town near Vesuvius, like white snow filling him up from the inside, preserving him in the remnants of the fire). He smells the fat and muscle spattering, the organs fraying, like the back room of a fast-food restaurant, his very own deep fryer. It’s not bad for a first attempt, this human bonfire, Kise thinks.  
  
The bones remain; Kise wants them to, after all. There’s no use in killing if you don’t have a trophy, a deer head for the wall or the mounted scales of a large fish, the cracked tusk of the elephant. Lying out like this, Aomine’s bones are not the proud, impressive physical specimen he had been. But it’s okay that they aren’t; Kise would rather it not be quite so obvious. He lets the bones bleach out in the sun on his roof, so that they look store-bought, a skeleton for anatomical practice (and, well, once upon a time, there had been plenty of that).  
  
Kise has never been much of an artist. He’s always painted better with the flame, with the knife, with a sweeping of the ashes. But there’s always time to improve, and you don’t have to be good at every hobby you pursue. Kise’s fine being a mediocre painter for now; the paintings are for him, after all, for no one else. Aomine’s skull laughs on the table, flowers poked through the eye sockets, posing with a wine bottle or two, next to an unlit candle, laughing at the fire that isn’t, keeping Kise company. But now, it’s only Kise’s laugh that pierces the air, alone, bouncing off the painted canvas. Aomine’s laughter is silent, the hinges of his jaw shut, but sometimes Kise can hear it if he listens hard enough.

* * *

6\. i'm happy enough here in the ground

 The first sign is the way Kise’s beard begins to grow, golden and fuzzy like lichen. Kise’s always been able to go for a few days without shaving, but now it grows too fast, covering his face like a carpet. It doesn’t grow longer than that, but it stays. It’s strange, but stranger things have happened and Kise can afford the extra shaving cream.  
  
They can’t ignore the cough, Kise’s complaint that there’s something stuck in his throat, especially not when the next morning a stalk with leaves is sprouting out of his mouth. Aomine wrenches it out when Kise tells him to, unable to argue further. He doesn’t wrench out any of Kise’s organs, his stomach or lungs through his throat; the roots of the plant (something Aomine can’t classify) are covered in some sort of bodily slime. Aomine dumps it down the garbage disposal.  
  
It’s back, bigger, the next day, and there are knots like bark on Kise’s arm.  
  
“What is this?” says Kise, his voice strange and muffled around the stem (he tries to bite off the leaves but they refuse to give under his teeth; tonight Aomine tries to pull it out again—he’d do it every night for Kise—but the plant does not budge).  
  
Aomine has no answer.  
  
The progression slows down after that, gradual, like the growth of a skyscraper, foundation dug and needing staunch support. There is the bark Kise peels from his arms, the flowers sprouting from inside his ears, impeding his hearing (Aomine learns to write things down for him; Kise writes back because talking’s painful, too, and he’s still got his fingers and eyes). They have sex sometimes, still, because Kise claims he wants to, that it’s not painful, and Aomine takes him at his word. They have to stop when a seedling sprouts from the tip of Kise’s cock, a bright and twisting green vine.   
  
Kise needs water; he cries for it; he sits in the bathtub and the water dries up, and that’s when Aomine discovers the roots like hair at the bottom of Kise’s feet. It’s the first he cries through all of this, face down on the bed while Kise is in the bathroom (he’ll need to be carried), because he can’t ignore that this is taking Kise away from him. Kise is still serene about all of it; he writes that it’s not that painful, that he’s feeling a little better. Aomine wonders if he’s lying.  
  
He’s still beautiful as a half-tree, twisting in the moonlight, hardened bark arms around Aomine’s waist, leaf-covered lips pressing to Aomine’s shoulder. He is so beautiful like this that it hurts even more, maybe.   
  
The water in the bathtub is not enough for him forever, and Kise stops being able to walk, his legs fused together into a trunk, his roots sprouting and hardening. Aomine cries carrying him down the stairs, and Kise strokes his hair absently, as if he is already gone.   
  
He plants Kise in the garden, a few meters away from the oak tree, so as not to give him unnecessary competition (not that Kise wouldn’t win out). He digs a hole and piles soil over what had once been Kise’s pretty little toes, the scar on his ankle now a ridge in his bark. Kise’s eyes are still sharp as they watch.  
  
It’s getting difficult for Kise to move the branches his arms are becoming, but he embraces Aomine all the same.  
  
“Thank you,” he whispers, through the difficulty of making sounds with his mouth (he had once been so chatty, so impossible to shut up, so—).   
  
Not long after that he stops breathing, His hands are stiff, raised to the sky; he is growing up ward to meet it. His hair is a fine cluster of needles, his eyes are knots on wood. There is little to say that he had once been human, except in Aomine’s memory.


	49. aokaga, being foolish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11613417#cmt11613417)
> 
> 3/9

1\. Denial

 “It’s not,” says Aomine, frowning.   
  
Momoi can see the crease in his forehead; he’s always been a bad liar but that’s not a giveaway sign that this is a blatant falsehood. It shows he’s worried, worried that he’s obvious or that nothing will come of this. Momoi supposes this is common, especially when it comes to someone like Aomine who masks all the things he’s not so confident in with the same veneer of oversecurity to compensate. It’s easy to fool people who want to stuff him into the box of hyperconfidence and arrogance, who see only what they want to see out of him and dislike that image (and dislike him for being something he really isn’t in the first place).   
  
“It is,” says Momoi. “You like him, Dai-chan. It’s okay to admit it, you know?”  
  
“I don’t,” says Aomine. “It’s not a crush.”  
  
“Okay,” says Momoi.   
  
She stares at him, crossing her arms over her chest. Aomine looks back at her, defiant at first, but that fades back to the same worried creasing of his face.  
  
“Are you worried he won’t like you back?”  
  
Aomine nods, a jerk of his head.  
  
“He looks up to you.”  
  
“Which is what makes this so fucking pathetic!” Aomine says. “I don’t want him to look up to me and beat me and then have me confess like some fucking…I don’t know, loser, and him find some way to let me down nicely. Or laugh in my face.”  
  
“Kagamin wouldn’t,” says Momoi. “If he does, I’ll kick his ass, but he won’t.”  
  
Aomine snorts at that, but Momoi’s serious. (If she doesn’t protect Aomine, who will? He’s certainly not good at letting anyone else close enough to try.)  
  
“I just…he think’s I’m cool.”  
  
“But he might think you’re unattainably so,” says Momoi (and God knows why Kagami would, but he’s definitely the type to pine and wish for Aomine’s happiness, not out of any desire to martyr himself but because he’s got that kind of interior). “You tell him, you seem more…on his level. You can’t wait for him to lift himself up there and realize it first.”  
  
“It’s…” Aomine starts, trailing off.  
  
“Tough to cede the advantage?”  
  
Aomine shrugs, but then nods when Momoi’s look turns sharper.   
  
“Well, if you really like him then you’re going to have to at some point,” says Momoi. “It’s a give-and-take.”  
  
“You’ve never dated anyone,” says Aomine, but from him that means her advice is being taken very much to heart.

* * *

2\. Coffee or Other Caffeine

 Daiki’s simultaneously best and worst investment is probably the espresso machine. He’d bought it for Taiga’s birthday, stuck between something boring and impersonal like a gift card and stuff he’d been pretty sure Taiga already had or clothes he probably wouldn’t wear (he’d just bought him a pair of sneakers, too, shitty timing on his part). So he’d seen the espresso machine, and while Taiga had never expressed any interest in having one, he makes a damn good cup of coffee and he’s always bringing home different stuff for the kitchen (and he uses it all).  
  
So, with a bit of trepidation, Daiki hands it over, all wrapped up, and Taiga loves it.  
  
The problem is that he’s so fucking fussy about it. Daiki will remind him that he’s the one who bought it (as a gift, yes, but it’s supposedly their house and their kitchen and their stuff, and sometimes it’s midday and he’s half-awake and it’s a hell of a lot better than five cups of coffee or running to the convenience store for an energy drink that basically tastes like carbonated lemon pledge). He’ll remind Taiga, and Taiga will still tell him he’s using it all wrong and he’s not doing it right and it’ll come out the wrong way and what the hell does he care if he’s not the one using it? It’s not worth it for Daiki to buy a machine of his own (and there’s not enough space), but it’s the principle of the thing.  
  
“You scratched the filter,” Taiga says, and Daiki has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes.  
  
“So? It’s not like it’s coated in anything, and it’s not like it’s a deep scratch where the grounds are getting caught.”  
  
“It’s scratched,” Taiga says, as if the problem should be self-evident.  
  
“Yeah, so? That’s what happens when you own things. They depreciate in value.”  
  
“I like it when my things look nice,” says Taiga, and Daiki wonders if he’s arguing just to argue, because he’s caught up and wants to be right.  
  
And maybe that’s part of it, but it still means a lot to him. It’s fucking stupid and doesn’t make any sense, and yeah Daiki has to be more careful not to scratch it (even if Taiga can only see the tiny little marks when he holds the damn filter basket up to the light to expect and critique Daiki) but, if it’s harmless, why not do it?   
  
Daiki never likes being the one to give, but even as stubborn as he is, realistically he has to do it sometimes. He has to pick his battles, and even though it’s a half-sunk cost already this might not be the hill he should die on. And if it’s so fucking dumb on both sides, why isn’t Taiga the one giving in?  
  
He buys a new filter basket the next weekend, sticks the old one back int he cupboard with the electric mixer they rarely use.   
  
“I’m sorry I kept scratching your basket,” Daiki says, tossing the new one to Taiga. “Won’t happen with this one.”  
  
“It had better fucking not,” says Taiga.  
  
(It doesn’t.)

* * *

3\. Oversleeping

The first week of summer together they oversleep every day. They go to bed early, too; if Taiga gets knocked out of the playoffs later Daiki does it all over again with him because the season is one massive hunk of sleep debt and because summer doesn’t really start without him and Taiga together in Taiga’s mostly-unoccupied LA condo, air conditioning blasting them into believing it’s okay to go out until the heat hits them like a tidal wave and bowls them over.  
  
Taiga misses a dentist appointment once, and Daiki screws up a brunch reservation, but it’s the kind of thing that doesn’t really matter and fades away, eaten up by the heat and the very different kind of warmth that’s being with each other all over again. There’s no season, no shitty schedule, no moments of being in the same city when they’re exhausted deep in their bones, no wanting so badly to defeat each other in a playoff series but the bittersweet recognition that they’re ending each other’s chances, whichever way it ends.  
  
It’s a lovely feeling, waking up to roll over and grab at Taiga, knowing he can do anything, talk about nothing or let his hands wander for an hour and go nowhere, go back to sleep, that there’s no plane to catch or real practice to go to. They’ll do summer training; they always do it and run themselves to the ground without even getting on a plane, challenge each other to get in more reps and make more shots faster. But that’s later; even they deserve a break (and the press can say all they want about multimillion-dollar salaries and what the fans deserve; no one needs to run on empty all year).  
  
It makes going to bed feel better, too; it’s a comfort knowing that there’s ten or more hours ahead of Daiki, uninterrupted and full of sleep, Taiga settling in his arms (or strong-arming him into being the little spoon, which Daiki really doesn’t mind but loves annoying Taiga with), knowing he’s going to wake up to a damn good sight and feeling and nothing stretching out in front of him, an empty basketball court with an exponential amount of choices available in getting the ball into the hoop. Some days he’ll try a full-court shot; some days he'll drive to a dunk; any day he doesn’t have to choose right away. He can put it off, and most of the time he can convince Taiga to procrastinate, too.


	50. takamido sensations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12210409#cmt12210409)
> 
> 3/9

1\. fluttering eyelashes against skin

Midorima expresses his affection in small ways, quiet touches and smiles he knows Takao can see when he’s not looking, lucky items or small things purchased because he’d thought Takao would like them (he’s long-since disposed as the membrane-thin excuse that he’d just happened to have one around; there’s really no way of wrapping that up in casual coincidence even for him). He kisses Takao sometimes; he’ll even initiate. But he’s not the type of guy to give a butterfly kiss, despite the length of his eyelashes and the ease of accidentally brushing over Takao’s face, non-gestures that Takao still counts because of the sensation.  
  
He’s done it more than once or twice; it’s surprisingly scratching and quick, satisfying an itch Takao hadn’t recognized within himself but he wants it again. It becomes a game of sorts, to jerk his face away from Midorima’s at the right angle for Midorima to blink and his lashes to brush, quickly, over Takao’s cheek or forehead or the corner of his eye, maybe his nose. Takao would like to raise his hand to Midorima’s face and do it then, but that’s too obvious; he doesn’t want Midorima to know just what he’s doing just yet. It’s like a secret between himself and his favorite part of Midorima, and maybe that’s being dishonest, but, well (once or twice Takao has looked in the mirror and found a singular green lash stuck to his own skin; he blows it off his finger into the sink and makes a wish before washing it down the drain).  
  
Midorima’s not going to stay oblivious forever; Takao does it more and more and again, and Midorima holds him back, hands on his shoulders.  
  
“What is this?”  
  
“You got me,” says Takao. “I like the way your eyelashes feel on my skin.”  
  
Midorima looks at him as if he can’t parse the sentence, a broken robot.   
  
“Like, when you blink,” Takao says.  
  
“Oh,” says Midorima.   
  
“Can I?” says Takao, lifting his hand to Midorima’s face.  
  
Midorima shudders, closing his eyes. He opens them to Takao’s palm, and Takao’s stomach flutters in response. It feels so good, like a tickle, not quite a scratch on this part of him. Midorima does it again.  
  
“I don’t get it,” he says. “Please don’t cover my eyes without telling me, but.”  
  
“You’re sweet, Shin-chan,” says Takao, but this time he kind of means it.

* * *

2\. long sleeves over slender fingers

 Takao’s hands are smaller than Midorima’s, but no less dexterous. He would be good at playing an instrument, Midorima thinks, perhaps the viola but since it’s Takao he might go for something more likely to grab someone’s attention (then again, Takao’s the kind of guy who could draw attention to the viola section in an orchestra if he wanted to, some way playing the crowd like the instrument in his hands). His fingers are slim and deft, playing with the buttons on Midorima’s shirt or brushing through his hair, sometimes ripping too harshly through a tangle.   
  
Takao wears things that are slightly too large for him sometimes, pants that brush and wear against the ground, jackets that hang from his shoulders, sweaters that he pulls over his hands in the winter even when they’re always warm. His fingers peek out from under their double-knit covers, a small child asleep or flowers growing wild under a bridge in the country. They look even smaller like this, but the sight makes Midorima want to touch them, raise each finger bare to his lips and kiss (suck on them the way Takao always asks him to do, even outside of a lewd context like that).  
  
“Is there something on my thumb?” Takao asks him, raising his hand to the light and turning it around and around, slowly so that Midorima can see every angle.  
  
The sleeve falls back, baggy against his wrist; Midorima almost sighs.  
  
“Nothing,” he says.  
  
He feels his face heat up; Takao’s looking at him with that catlike gaze of triumph; Midorima feels very much like a helpless mouse under his paws, about to be swatted about and played with until he feels like giving up.  
  
Takao places his hand back on the desk, letting the sleeve slide forward again. His fingers are perfect, like a photo; Takao crooks his thumb and curls the rest of his fingers softly, and then flexes them out. Midorima can’t look away; he knows his eyes are following the motion behind his glasses. Takao smirks and drops his other hand on the desk next to it, hooking his thumbs together.   
  
“Stop it.”  
  
“Why? You like it,” says Takao, clasping his hands, the sleeves falling over to his knuckles. Midorima closes his eyes, pushes his glasses up. He opens his eyes again; Takao wiggles his fingers, all ten of them.  
  
“Maybe I’ll get a manicure.”  
  
Midorima scowls. He is not funny.

* * *

3\. picking out earwax

 Hawkeye is only good for basketball, and it would be ridiculous to suggest that it makes Takao better at cleaning the house, dusting in corners, finding flaws in precious stones, or anything else, really. So Midorima doesn’t. Perhaps it has no direct influence on the way Takao is in other aspects, but perhaps it indirectly makes him more meticulous, good at digging out the details with a fine-tooth comb, better at digging out physical things.  
  
He cleans Midorima’s ears; it’s something Midorima had never asked for but appreciates more than he thought he would. There’s something intimate about it, more so than kissing naked or talking quietly on the couch with Takao’s feet in his lap (Midorima’s given up on asking him to take them off; it’s actually maybe sort of comfortable—sometimes) with the TV on mute to a channel they’ve forgotten. It’s Takao’s fingers, ghosting over the shells, cleaning out the groves with a cotton swab, the squeak of the tip against his skin, massaging the flaky areas behind, caressing his lobes (Takao always says he should get them pierced; Midorima’s not interested in doing that to his body but sometimes he imagines holes in his ears large enough for Takao to stick a finger through, and the thought is not displeasing).   
  
But the best part is Takao’s finger in his ear, digging out the built-up wax, reaching into the corners of his ear canal, clearing it out from where he hadn’t realized it was in the first place. Seeing a wad of wax stuck to Takao’s fingernail is rewarding, too, but it’s not as good as the feeling of Takao’s finger inside his ear. Sometimes he lets Takao keep doing it afterward, turns his ear toward him as an offering and a question. Takao never denies, never refuses.   
  
The sound of nail on skin is a washing wave this close to his eardrum, soothing; Midorima closes his eyes and leans in. Takao scratches, soft and smooth with the filed-down end of his nail, and Midorima sighs. (Takao never does both ears at once; he can’t pay enough attention and it would be too overwhelming, so much sensation that Midorima wouldn’t be able to take it or appreciate it.) But like this, a weekly ritual, it’s more than enough, unwinding Midorima like a loose spool of thread, slowly and carefully until he’s just a mess of trust in Takao’s hands.


	51. garciraki rites of passage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11845865#cmt11845865)
> 
> 3/9

1\. first hangover

 Alex groans. The sound is grating against her ears, disgusting; she feels thirsty and hungry and nauseous all at once, and when she tries to prop herself up her body’s moving sluggishly. Her stomach turns, dangerously; she lies back down and focuses on her breath. In, out, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. Something shifts on the mattress beside her, and Alex cracks an eye open, squinting to try and get her vision clear. Right. She’d taken that gorgeous woman home, Masako, after having six or seven drinks and way too much to eat and they hadn’t even done anything because as soon as they’d gotten back she’d collapsed on the bed, slurring an apology. She remembers MAsako smoothing back her hair, and that’s it, until now.  
  
Masako doesn’t look awake; Alex props herself up again, holding her breath. It’s a little better. God, she has a headache; it’s pounding the inside of her skull, announcing its arrival with all the worst kind of fanfare. Maybe she’d fallen asleep entertaining fantasies of sleepy morning sex with Masako, but that seems pretty unlikely right now. She has to pee, too; it’s like every part of her body has woken up and started protesting on its own. Alex lurches to her feet.  
  
Her stomach is twisting and screaming; she tries to swallow everything back down; she makes it to the bathroom and barely has time to open the toilet before she pukes inside of it. Her hair’s still in an approximation of its updo from last night; she holds it back anyway, trying to think of anything other than how fucking gross this is. She feels like she’s going to gag again but nothing happens and she waits, stretched over the toilet. There are footsteps behind her; of course this would wake up Masako.  
  
“Hangover?” she says.  
  
“I don’t get them,” says Alex.   
  
“You do now,” says Masako, grim amusement coloring her voice.  
  
Alex slumps over the toilet; there’s nothing left to puke up but she still feels fucking awful. “I’m sorry. I’m a shit date.”  
  
“I’m just glad you’re okay,” says Masako, and Alex doesn’t feel okay even though she knows what Masako means.  
  
A cool glass of water is pressed into her hands, a washcloth to her face. Alex leans back against the wall; Masako flushes the toilet and sits down next to her. She doesn’t look too great, either; in the weak light through the windowblinds Alex can see the mascara stained on her face, the way last night’s clothes stick to her. She smells pretty awful, too, though maybe that’s just from being around Alex. Alex leans her head against Masako’s shoulder.  
  
“You can make it up to me,” says Masako. “If you want to go out next week. No drinking.”  
  
“I’m not this much of a lush, usually,” says Alex, closing her eyes. “But that’s probably not a bad idea.”

* * *

2\. initiation

 They weren’t going to let her join; they weren’t going to even consider it. There had never been a concrete plan regarding Alex Garcia, but the general consensus was to let the impossibly-tall foreign girl be, leave her alone, and concentrate on holding their territory against the East Side Gang. But as Masako’s only really beginning to understand, Alex has a way of disrupting plans with her swift spontaneity, a different kind of danger than carrying a knife strapped to your calf under your long school skirt (Alex wears hers shorter than the rest of them, too; Masako would ask her for uniformity but she’d rather be able to keep stealing glances at Alex’s long legs, bare from just above her knees to her ankles). She’s a damn good basketball player, and she’s charming to boot; Masako had never meant to talk to her outside of practice but they’d ended up shooting hoops in the park and then Alex had reached for her hand and, well.  
  
“Can you fight?” Masako had asked Alex.  
  
“Probably not as well as you can,” she’d said, which Masako had accepted as good enough.  
  
Dating and this stuff don't mix on their own, but someone else is going to stir up trouble at some point, and it’s better for all of them that Alex comes along, even if she can’t ride just yet. She’ll learn; they all did at some point even though they’d like to pretend they were born on motorcycles with blonde hair (Alex has that part down, at least). And she can fight; they’d played a basketball game against some out-of-town team who’d taken an exception, shoved her across the court; she’d had the other girl (taller, wider, stronger) in a headlock, twisting her arm; she’d been suspended five games despite Masako’s best arguments in her favor as team captain (they can win without her but it’s harder; it’s not as fun).   
  
“So,” Alex says, the late-fall wind whipping at her hair.  
  
She doesn’t blow on her cold hands or shiver; she knows how to posture. Masako’s girls are all standing behind her, staring her down; Alex stares back, confident.   
  
"Give me your hand,” says Masako.  
  
Alex offers it and Masako turns it over in hers, maybe spending a little too long feeling the calluses on her fingers from basketball, hard but smoothed over. She reaches in her pocket for the thin razorblade and turns Alex’s hand to the side. She slashes the thin line across, eyes flickering up to Alex’s face. Her mouth is pressed in a line, but this never hurts at first. Blood begins to appear, bright red against the pale tone her skin adopts in the winter. Masako pockets the razor.   
  
“You’re in, if you get this first fight,” says Masako.   
  
She hears the girls shuffle behind her, the rustle of skirts and the rush to their bikes.  
  
“Get on the back of mine,” says Masako.  
  
Alex’s arms are snug around her waist; there will be dried blood on her uniform tomorrow but Masako doesn’t give a shit.

* * *

3\. annual festival

 “I’d like to stay for the festival,” Alex says.  
  
She means it; it’s not a washed-out watercolor of a someday or it would be nice; it’s something she wants and it’s something she’s going to do, however that gets accomplished. Masako gives her dates and times and places and Alex buys tickets and makes arrangements, and she’s there two days before. Masako’s still got to get her yukata out of storage and figure out what she’s going to do if she runs into any students, but that’s secondary.  
  
“You really did it,” she says.  
  
“Did you have any doubt?” says Alex.  
  
Masako takes her to the shop to get fitted for a yukata and do her hair; the old lady rushes Masako out until she’s done. It’s not the first thing Masako thinks, but she wonders if it would have been better to stay because the effect wouldn’t be so damn dramatic. But seeing Alex in a sea-green yukata with blue trim, her hair pinned up above her head, even before she puts on her glasses is. Fuck. Masako almost forgets how to breathe.  
  
“You like it,” Alex says, grinning.  
  
“Yes,” says Masako.   
  
Alex holds her hand as they weave their way through the crowds, air thick with the smell of smoked meat and burned sugar. Alex isn’t used to walking in geta enough, but she wants to do it anyway; they end up sitting down on a bench when it’s clear her feet are getting a little worn out. She apologizes; Masako waves it away.  
  
“Please,” says Masako. “I’ve seen this all already. It’s enough, just this.”  
  
(Just being here with Alex, the sweet summer air, the sounds and the atmosphere rich enough to coat everything, nostalgic but pulled forward into the future all the same. Alex gets it; she squeezes Masako’s hand.)  
  
They stand for the fireworks, bright colors standing out against the sky, the lights of the festival enough to block out some of the stars, fireworks outshining them, the closest Masako’s ever been to a shooting star. It would be stupid to wish on a firework, but no stupider than wishing on a star, and there’s nothing Masako even wants to wish for in the first place. She's got more than enough here and now, Alex all dolled up and gorgeous and leaning her head on Masako’s shoulder, food in her free hand and warmth all around her.


	52. murahimu, odd/horror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12254441#cmt12254441)
> 
> 6/9

1\. mirror crack

 The crack of a mirror is seven years of bad luck, but at this point Murasakibara’s accumulated more bad luck than years he’ll live. Of course, those kinds of adages have never specified to whom the bad luck is going, so if it’s some stranger on the other side of the world Murasakibara can live with that. Or if it perseveres to the next life, then perhaps it’s insurance that he’ll get here all over again, even if he’s an insect. And he’ll take eternal shitty luck in exchange for something that sits on his tongue without dissolving, a sliver of mirror he can swallow down, feel as it slides down his throat.  
  
It had started with the glass candies his aunt had kept in a bowl; he’d reached for one one day and begun to suck on it, his siblings and cousins who were supposed to be watching paying him no mind. It had tasted sharp and bitter with paint, not the sweet staleness he’d come to expect from brightly-colored translucent things; he had almost spit it back out into his hand. But the sensation had been soothing, filling something he hadn’t noticed was empty. Unlike the candies he was used to, this one didn’t diminish in size and stain his tongue; this one didn’t go away.   
  
Eventually he’d been caught and reprimanded; he hadn’t understood because his aunt had told them all to help themselves and it was candy sitting there on the table. His second brother had told him he was stupid because you can’t eat glass, and Murasakibara had wanted to retort that he just had, but he didn’t want to get hit or yelled at again. The battle was not worth having, now that he knew this was something he could do.  
  
It had started with the candies and continued with candlesticks, glass baubles, and then the mirror. His sister had thrown her old compact in the trash, the catch broken so it wouldn’t stay closed. The mirror had been scratched on the surface, but it was still in one piece and Murasakibara had popped it out, peeling off the glue.  
  
The coating on the back had scratched his tongue, rough and good, but the whole thing wouldn’t fit into Murasakibara’s mouth at once so he’d cracked it in two, glittering dust crumbling between the two halves and onto his bedroom floor. He’d cracked each half in two, licking the glitter from his fingers where it had stuck. It had tasted more sustaining than sugar, richer than a cheap corn snack.   
  
He’s never explained it to Himuro, but Himuro gets it. Sometimes he’ll break the mirrors into pieces for him, divide them up into even, jagged pieces and let Murasakibara lick the dust from his nail beds. He feeds the pieces to Murasakibara, teases them out like rewards for nothing tangible, and Murasakibara takes them even though he knows he’s not always good.

* * *

2\. lived-in shells

 Tatsuya molts twice a year, sheds his hard skin like a paper ghost, scars and all. The first time Atsushi had found him, buried in the sand, naked out of his shell and starting to shed, he’d lifted him up. Tatsuya had gone six months without a right leg for the mistake, something Atsushi had grown used to until the next time when he’d stayed away and Tatsuya had emerged from the sand, new leg skinny and almost malformed from the lack of muscle, silhouette more balanced and looking almost wrong until he’d gotten used to it again and Tatsuya had built up its strength, had gone from limping to something more graceful.   
  
Tatsuya never grows back the eye; the area around it always looks rotten even when it’s fresh, though Atsushi’s grown used to looking at it during the time it takes for Tatsuya’s hair to grow back (swiftly, more than anyone who’s even mostly human should). But that he’s letting Atsushi see this, all of him, trusting him or not caring that he doesn’t is still a little odd to think about.   
  
He’ll only come out of his shell for Atsushi, now; it’s hard for Atsushi not to take some sort of pride about that.   
  
“Muro-chin, bath,” he’ll say, and sometimes Tatsuya won’t come.  
  
Other times he will, easing out of his shell and into the bathtub. His skin is hardened by now, but he lets Atsushi bathe it in fresh water, kiss him and stick him in his lap, scrub the sand from his ears and hair. And then he retreats back into his shell, the home he carries around him, the shield that reinforces his hardened skin when there is barely any need for it.   
  
When he crawls out of the sand, awake from the long molting process, he will crawl toward Atsushi. He’s been what looks like sleeping for a month or two, but he claims he needs to rest and stuffs himself into Atsushi’s bed, getting sand everywhere. His skin is still tender to the touch, his body unaccustomed to a shell around it in its current state. The sex is good (it’s just about the only time it is, but it’s worth it to have to wait for).   
  
He goes back the next morning to eat his skin, the ripped outline of the person he’d been a month ago, stuffing the pieces in his mouth like strips torn off a pancake. He does not offer any to Atsushi, but it probably doesn’t taste good, just something he does, in the long list of things that Tatsuya does. Atsushi wouldn’t have it any other way.

* * *

3\. you need to stop eating flowers (you'll never bloom)

It doesn’t help him. Tatsuya knows it doesn’t, and yet, he’d gotten into the habit, the old wives’ tales of eating flower to make your wild magic bloom. Maybe it works; maybe it doesn’t; it’s irrelevant when you have no connection to the natural world, no ability to create and nurture life with your own hands.  
  
Tatsuya has magic, but he rarely shows it; he can create an ice storm large and terrible enough to raze a forest if he wants; he can destroy, trap and petrify and freeze out. He cannot make grass sprout, flowers bloom, sweet-tart cherries grow fat at the end of what was once a blossom. There is nothing organic and pure in his veins, nothing green and lush that flows and rolls, the sweet smell of comfort.   
  
Atsushi makes them for him, even though he says they’re for decoration; he hadn’t started until he’d noticed the plastic pots, soil dumped into the garden, washed up and piled by the sink to be recycled, from the cheap geraniums Tatsuya buys at the corner store. Tatsuya had seen him looking, but he hadn’t said anything; the next day there had been daisies and clover sitting in one on the kitchen table. Tatsuya had eaten them for breakfast, picking pieces of clover out of his teeth the rest of the day.  
  
Atsushi mixes it up, pansies and peonies and petunias, lilies and daffodils and narcissus, tulips and roses and carnations. Once he even leaves a bush of hydrangeas that lasts Tatsuya a week. It doesn’t help; it’s almost like a cruel taunt that Atsushi’s large, rough hands can create things like this, delicate, crunching wet and juicy in Tatsuya’s mouth, soft on his tongue. Tatsuya’s fingertips are still dull; when he concentrates there’s only the familiar sting of the cold. The stem in his hand stiffens and breaks, and Tatsuya stuffs it frozen in his mouth, ignoring the hot bitterness of the tears behind his eyes.  
  
He needs to stop; it’s an addiction; his mind is hardwired to pluck from a vase, from a garden, from a park, to eat and eat but never be full. People call Atsushi a glutton, but Tatsuya’s the one who takes and takes, trying to fill the bottomless chasm of terrible magic inside him, high enough to transform it into something good and useful. It won’t work; it doesn’t help. He needs to stop. He’ll never bloom, but sometimes at night he dreams of it, Atsushi’s hands forming stems and his own sprouting thorns and leaves.

* * *

4\. the stones weathered in his lungs

The first stone had grown when he was a child, found at his physical, the doctor frowning when she’d listened to his lungs. She’d tapped; he’d tried to keep from wincing (be tough; be strong), and she’d referred him to a specialist.   
  
It’s calcified, like bone growth almost, different from kidney stones or gallstones, always symptomatic and always multiplying. The specialist offers to remove Tatsuya’s lungs, replace them with someone else’s or a machine, though even then they’d always come back, kept at bay but creeping up, tiny yellowed pebbles.  
  
When Tatsuya is sixteen, they’re big enough to feel in his chest. He can hear them rolling, scraping against the walls of his lungs, clattering against each other. They rise when he falls, taking another jump shot and leaping to the base of his throat. He learns quickly to suppress the coughs and gags that rise up through him, turning to run down the court and turn his face smooth again. There are seven now, his doctor had said; that had been months ago back in LA and it feels like he’s gotten a few more.  
  
“What’s that sound?” Atsushi asks as Tatsuya drifts to sleep, the gentle clacking so familiar to him he almost forgets it’s there.  
  
“It's me," says Tatsuya, and shuts his eyes.  
  
When he is twenty, his chest bulges forward with the weight. He can barely breathe, like a forest fire, like the stones are forming knuckles and fingers to close around his windpipe. Atsushi doesn’t ask, only listen; his face is not creased with the concern and pity that his parents show and, well, Tatsuya’s not grateful per se, but it makes things easier.  
  
“You can have them when they spill out,” he whispers.  
  
“That's gross, Muro-chin,” Atsushi whispers back.   
  
He cuts open his skin when the left lung tears through, pulls out the stones and covered in blood, they don’t look the way he’d always imagined, a betrayal of sorts (as if his body hadn’t betrayed him already). He’s already been breathing without air for so long; what’s a little longer? His vision blurs; he presses the stones, sticky with blood, to Atsushi’s palm. Atushi does not wake, but his fingers curl like a small child given a trinket, large misshapen marbles of white-yellow-red. Tatsuya’s fingertips are blue; the blood in his ears rushes too fast to hear himself gasp, to hear the roll and click of the stones still in his body.

* * *

5\. the fires you let me try

 “Atsushi, you want to try?” Himuro asks, holding out the torch.  
  
Murasakibara can see the embers at the top of it, burning and crumbling like a supersized cigarette. He nods. Himuro hands it over, fingers brushing against Murasakibara’s, smile encouraging like a siren beckoning from the rocks. Murasakibara holds the flame closer; sweat dances below his lip, his eyes begin to water under the smoke. He’s no coward; he opens his mouth and plunges the torch inside.  
  
They say, later, something about degrees of burning. Murasakibara can’t focus on the words enough to hear, only the pain screaming in his mind and the screams he tries to make but that his voice cannot, the black in front of his eyes (he feels as if they cannot close), the voices faraway and he’s not sure how much later, talking of degrees of burning, things to save (things that can be salvaged), heavy weights (do you mean me, he tries to ask; his tongue won't move).  
  
The next time he wakes up his tongue’s gone, a stump in his mouth behind charred teeth, behind the mouth he can’t feel. They tell him he’d gotten lucky; the skin will scar (he lifts a hand to his face and finds only gauze under his fingers) but it'll still be there (they’ve grafted part of his thigh to his cheek and that explains that pain, the wound there he can feel); he’ll still have a mouth and a nose and eyelids that are all his own.   
  
Himuro's not there. (“An accident,” he says, later, “Atsushi got too close to the fire,” and then they stop asking because of course it must have been traumatic to recall, but all Murasakibara can remember is the fire dancing behind Himuro’s eyes all night, the hands that pass through the flames demon-quick, tiny scars on the sides of his knuckles, the flame the last thing Murasakibara had truly tasted, only it had licked back.)   
  
The skin around his mouth scars rough and obvious; even with a tongue his throat’s burned out and the likelihood of speaking would be low. He doesn’t need to speak, anyway; he just needs to look hard enough to make Himuro look away, lock him in a staring contest, Himuro’s gaze sliding over his mangled chin and cheeks and up, to where his eyelashes have grown back, Murasakibara still unyielding, daring Himuro to try him.

* * *

6\. handmade storms

 Tatsuya cuts himself on a kitchen knife making fish, and before he sucks it out Atsushi sees the icebergs floating in his blood, pooling through the break in his skin at the surface. His body’s always cool and there are blizzards and ice storms at his fingertips and yet, Atsushi’s never considered this, literal ice in his veins. He reaches out as if to touch it.  
  
“That’s unsanitary,” Tatsuya says lightly, before grabbing the same first-aid ointment everyone buys at the store.  
  
It’s unsettlingly normal, typical Tatsuya, annoyingly so. Atsushi wonders what’s coming next, whether it’s another blizzard in June, covering their garden in frost (Tatsuya had grinned and apologized as if it had been a silly accident; Atsushi had sulked and mourned his peppers and tomatoes and sunflowers) or a frozen furnace, an ice surface crawling up the floor before it melts in the summer heat and warps the floorboards (they’re never seeing that security deposit again). Atsushi has little sympathy; his rainstorms are never in the house and never in the wrong season, never banishing the wrong kind of air. It’s begging for trouble when he channels the electricity so thoroughly, when his fingers can condense water into clouds with just a flick. Tatsuya’s are different, rawer and smaller and possibly more dangerous.  
  
Tatsuya sleeps in the snow when it’s natural, body curled up and breath condensing in the air, a small cloud he sometimes shapes into a real one, snowing itself out in three minutes over his foot (a party trick, but sometimes it’s fun to poke at Tatsuya’s little cloud until Atsushi’s finger gets all wet and really, all those stereotypes about fluffy clouds are too insubstantial to gain as much traction as they do).  
  
Once, they had made a storm together, Tatsuya’s hands in the air, focused and steady, Atsushi’s waving lazily. Thunder and sleet had poured over them, lightning singeing the cold, wet ground next to their feet. It had been mostly Atsushi’s, and sometimes he wonders why Tatsuya even tries if this, dwarfed by half a rainstorm, is his best effort. He asks and Tatsuya shrugs, smiling pretty like that ought to distract Atsushi. It does, enough; if Tatsuya doesn’t want to tell him there’s not much he can do. It’s not worth climbing such a slippery wall; it’s not worth the effort of cracking him open with lightning when he’s not sure what he’ll find.


	53. momoriko about nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12240105#cmt12240105)

1\. in the moonlight

In the moonlight, Riko glows. She is always beautiful, unwilling to admit it or wanting to put it out of the foreground for the things that are more important. It is not the first thing Satsuki recognizes in her, not nearly her most important characteristic. But it is still part of her, still something that ought to be acknowledged more often, something not as much within her control as her accomplishments but something nonetheless.  
  
The moon hangs above them, waxing gibbous, closer to the full than the half. Its near-circle shines bright like a wedding band filled in from the center, golden-white and cracked with craters. Its light is soft, touching the undertones of Riko’s skin. It doesn’t light her the way the sun lights the moon; it’s like whatever’s in those glow-in-the-dark bracelets, a light shining on her to bring out her own luminescence coming from within.   
  
The line of her face of her face is soft as she sleeps, the set of her jaw loose. Her hair is creased from where she’d worn her glasses after getting out of the shower, still not quite dry. She lies on her side, nearly on her stomach, her shoulder directly in the ray of light boxed out by the windowpane above the headboard. Satsuki could spout cliches all night about goddesses and woodland spirits, terrible comparisons that would make Riko blush and tell her to stop but that flatter her nonetheless, but it’s only good when Riko’s awake (and even then, she doesn’t sleep enough; Satsuki’s got a hard enough job convincing her in the first place).  
  
Perhaps they’re beyond the point in their relationship where Satsuki should be allowed to stare, but whoever makes up these dumb arbitrary rules is wrong here. She’s always going to want to stare at Riko, the flutter of her lips and the twisting of her torso, the way she runs, graceful and bullet-swift (once, Satsuki had gone running with her; Riko had taken no prisoners and gone twice as fast because she always does, always on compete mode and never one to go lax on her personal training regimen just to keep pace with Satsuki). But in the moonlight, her pace is slowed; she can’t sleep faster, harder than the world around them (Satsuki would like to see her try). She is less like some two-dimensional goddess and more like the three-dimensional humanity she can’t escape, the thing that paradoxically makes her all the more beautiful.

* * *

2\. shh

Satsuki’s bare feet scuff the wooden porch silently, avoiding the creaks in the boards she’s committed to memory. She can see Riko’s outline, where she’s sitting on the step, clear in the porch light with its cloud of buzzing insects. Riko doesn’t turn to look at her; she already knows.  
  
These training camp meetings are always quiet; even when they speak they whisper and when they touch they avoid the rustles of clothes and the sigh of the shifting combined weight on the wood. They don’t want to be seen, for a number of reasons, but at the top for Satsuki is that she wants this side of Riko all to herself. Even if she’s the only one getting the attention, she doesn’t want anyone else to see Riko looking into her eyes, the smile flickering on her face as she tries to press it away. This side of Riko is only hers, and she’s not just going to share.  
  
Their fingers tangle, callouses pressing callouses; their lips meet. Satsuki brings one hand up to touch Riko’s face, wind through her hair. It’s getting longer again, too long to keep out of her face but not long enough to scrape back into a ponytail. Riko’s thinking about it, too; Satsuki pulls back and Riko smooths her hair down against her head (it unfurls slowly, slips forward like water from a dripping faucet). Riko frowns, trying to gather it back, pinching it between two fingers as if she could just cut it there but she’s not quite sure if she should.  
  
“It’s your hair,” says Sastuki. “Do what you want.”  
  
Yes, there is something to be said for doing what you should with your hair, presenting a facade, the serious student with her split ends clipped evenly or the young woman giving herself a little leeway to let her hair blow forward in the wind, or something else entirely. Either way (or if she went shorter, if she went longer) the coffee-cake color of Riko’s hair, the smooth sheen against Satsuki’s fingers, the angles as it frames her face differently—there’s no question she pulls it off, if this is about looking pretty (Riko with short hair off her neck and jaw, above her ears showing off the sparkly earrings she buys, Riko with long hair gathered in a braid over her shoulder—Satsuki’s not going to lie that she’s thought about both of them).   
  
Riko lowers her hands, hair sliding around her neck. There’s something to be said for this kind of in-between, even if it’s just Satsuki’s aesthetic preference. So she leans forward and kisses Riko again, both hands in her hair, in an attempt to get the message across without words.

* * *

3\. spotlight

There’s a spotlight on Satsuki. This isn’t literal and it’s not hyperbole, it’s not some continuation of the basketball light and shadow metaphor that had frankly lost all logic after the second game. This is on its own court, playing with its own rules, alien murder cartoon basketball versus the glorified TAPS they’re playing out there.  
  
That is, of course, everything out on the court that ties back to Satsuki with some invisible thread bathed in her light, a bent ray tying every player on each team to a different one of her fingers; she jerks and they move; Riko sets up and Satsuki knocks it over neatly like a child pleased with being contrary, only she knows exactly what the hell she’s doing.   
  
She is danger in a smile, destruction clothed in a teal sweatshirt and school uniform, calculated precision in the uneven ends of her pink hair. Riko narrows her eyes, glancing over the clipboard, trying to find an unexhausted possibility, a place she can push her players forward. Satsuki’s gotten hers to volunteer to pull with just a yank of a finger.  
  
It’s not effortless; it only looks that way. Riko knows that better than anyone, the meticulous notebooks, sleepless nights spent scouring the internet when she dozes off in Satsuki’s arms, the physical regimens calculated without the benefit of seeing muscular potential like superimposed numbers. And the effort in effortlessness, the deceptively smooth exterior, is just another part of Satsuki’s plans to wriggle in like a Trojan horse (the way she’d been over at Seirin all the time, ostensibly flirting with Kuroko but stealing way too many of Riko’s thoughts and affections). It’s well-thought-out, well-executed.  
  
But the spotlight is different; it is all of those things and none of them. It’s the way Harasawa fiddles his hair on the bench, confident in letting Satsuki get all of the effort, all of the spotlight, the glory and defeat of execution and mastery (Riko had wasted an afternoon trying to decipher if he was signing something to Satsuki or one of the players like a baseball coach wink-nudge-brushing the tip of his cap; she’d asked Satsuki about it once and Satsuki had laughed and Riko had wondered if maybe they’d start implementing it, only he really has little to contribute at this stage). It’s in the way Satsuki stares Riko down and Riko stares back. It’s in things that Riko can’t even begin to see or count, and she doesn’t need a reason to enjoy looking.


	54. muramido + summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12335337#cmt12335337)
> 
> 9/9
> 
> (you can assume for these, unless otherwise specified/made clear within the fic, that they both play for the celtics + live in boston)

1\. its too hot for kisses and cuddles; but...

Atsushi flops back on the bed. This is the second shirt he’s sweated through today, sticking to his back like a second clammy skin. He reaches under, pulling it up; the damp feeling under his fingers makes him wrinkle his nose, and he has to lift his back to get it to scrape away from between him and the bed.  
  
“We’re going to need to wash the sheets again,” says Shintarou.  
  
“Oh?” says Atsushi, lazily dragging out the syllable between his teeth like a blade of grass.  
  
“Ha, ha,” says Shintarou, flatly.  
  
Atsushi tosses the shirt at the hamper; it lands a few feet in front. Shintarou doesn’t even bother to scold him, to sigh or huff; his eyes are closed behind his glasses but that doesn’t mean he didn’t hear the thump. They’re close enough for Atsushi to see the sweat pouring down the side of Shintarou’s head, the way his glasses slip down his wet nose again and he waits until they’re nearly slipping off to push them up again. His fingers are free of their usual tape; it’s too hot and the tape will get too grimy, the adhesive too dirty and ruined from sweat (or at least that’s the excuse Shintarou gives; Atsushi would be fine if he came out and said the heat makes him too lazy). The fan is blowing right at them, but even the moving air isn’t that much of a relief when it’s this warm. Atsushi closes his eyes; if they had air conditioning here he could cuddle Shintarou close and kiss the sweat off his neck, bury his nose in Shintarou’s damp hairline. It’s too hot for that, but that doesn’t mean Atsushi doesn’t still want to do something; it’s a tradeoff between getting closer to Shintarou and relief from the heat.  
  
Shintarou’s right hand is unfurled on the bed next to him; Atsushi wipes his own palm on his shorts and reaches across, touching his fingertips to Shintarou’s. It’s cute how Shintarou’s eyes fly open like a startled bird.  
  
“It’s too hot to hold hands,” he says.  
  
“It’s not too hot for just this,” says Atsushi.  
  
It’ll get uncomfortable if they hold this position for longer, at least for Atsushi, but one of them will think of something else by then. Shintarou does, sliding his fingers away and pulling Atsushi’s wrist down to the covers, curling his fingers against it. There’s still some sweat, still a little body heat, but it’s a small price to pay.

* * *

2\. ice cream date

It’s a bit of a hike all the way out to west edge of Allston, but Shintarou reminds himself that they’re working off at least some of the calories Atsushi will (as always) coax him into eating. It’s a nice night, still before the college summer programs start up, and so once they get past Kenmore the streets are nearly empty, all the cheap postgrads and research assistants having better or more necessary places to be. The sun glares in their eyes from straight down the other end, and Shintarou’s awfully glad he’d worn sunglasses. Atsushi takes his hand, and for the moment Shintarou lets him. Atsushi makes a pleased sort of sound, as if he hadn’t been expecting it, but says nothing, curling his thumb farther around the back of Shintarou’s hand.  
  
The days are stretching long enough that they might get back home before dark, even if they walk (and, well, it’s not like taking the green line is ever a good option, and Shintarou refuses to shell out money for a cab even if they can afford it). It’s just another reminder of how long they have to go until November, the first game of the season, all of the things that might happen between now and then. The offseason is always uncertain, like curling one’s toes over the edge of a diving board.   
  
They stop at a red light on the bridge; Atsushi looks over at him. “What are you thinking about?”  
  
A white Mazda rushes past, hugging the curve (do they teach drivers to do the most dangerous things possible here?) and Shintarou flinches back. “Just…the offseason.”  
  
Atsushi hums. “It’ll settle down after the draft.”  
  
He doesn’t say Shintarou worries too much, and for that Shintarou is grateful (if he holds onto Atsushi’s hand a little tighter, well).  
  
The ice cream place is small; none of the tables are near big enough for the two of them but Shintarou supposes they can eat on the way back. Atsushi nudges him.  
  
“The peanut butter looks good.”  
  
“Then get some,” says Shintarou.  
  
He’s still deliberating; some of the combinations are a little bit unorthodox. Shintarou’s never thought about coconut and green tea, and he’s not sure it’s promising enough to drop what this place charges on a dubious possibility.   
  
“We have samples,” the woman behind the counter says, and Shintarou’s surprised when Atsushi only takes three.  
  
He tries to feed Shintarou the third, some kind of maple walnut; Shintarou closes his mouth but the wooden spoon hits against his lips (he tries to wait until Atsushi looks away before he licks them, but it’s drying and, well—the flavor’s quite good).  
  
“I’ll take that one,” says Shintarou.  
  
Atsushi practically beams (and Shintarou lets him up the order to large; he’s probably going to eat half of it anyway).  
  
It’s easier to walk home with the sun at their backs, Atsushi’s shoulder bumping against Shintarou as he leans over his shoulder, first dipping his spoon and then dispensing with formality altogether and licking the ice cream straight from the cup. His lips are stained sweet; it’s hard not to look at them. It’s harder not to kiss, in the shadows of a tenement, most of the windows unlit and unused, so the next time he leans in Shintarou kisses him before he gets there. It keeps the kiss short, sticky; Atsushi’s still hungry but he spends the next block grinning into his own cup of strawberry.

* * *

3\. broken AC - cold drinks

At least it’s not a blackout. At least the refrigerator is still on, its hum cutting through the odd silence of the kitchen without the air conditioner’s constant drone. They have, between them, a bottle of oolong tea that was Shintarou’s lucky item a week ago, a now-empty pitcher of water, and a pint can of beer, still closed. Atsushi eyes the beer, then the tea; Shintarou sighs and reaches for the pitcher. He refills it from the sink, pushes his bangs off his forehead (it always looks weird but he doesn’t really care; the air is so still and it’s so damn hot out).   
  
Atsushi poises his fingers on the edge of the beer can, and then pops it open. The hiss is elongated; the top is barely ajar; Atsushi finally pushes it the rest of the way. He takes a long sip and then passes it across the table. Shintarou takes a sip of his own, wincing at the taste; he is very much not a fan of sour beers. He opens the tea; perhaps it’s wasteful (and despite the gross feeling in his mouth the cool beer is spreading through him, across his body until it dissipates). He takes a small sip of tea, enough to wash the taste from his mouth. The plastic bottle slips in his hand, streaking condensation across his fingertips. Shintarou sighs. Atsushi tilts the can of beer, pouring it down his throat more than drinking it.  
  
“You want some more?” says Atsushi.  
  
Shintarou snorts. God, it’s so damn hot; if he felt like moving he’d go out and buy a fan—if only Cancer wasn’t in eleventh place (and Libra wasn’t in tenth place), then this perhaps wouldn’t have happened. Perhaps the air conditioner would still be working, or the repair places would send someone over more quickly, or there’d be better options in the fridge. Shintarou takes a bigger sip of tea.  
  
Atsushi leans over the table, sweaty elbows almost skidding on the surface. Shintarou meets him in the middle; Atsushi’s lips are cold and wet. His mouth is sour, but bearable; he still tastes a little like the strawberries he’d eaten straight from the carton to the faucet to his mouth, stems twirled between his fingers. They kiss until their mouths are warm and it feels gross all over again, the sweat from Shintarou’s upper lip slipping against Atsushi’s face.

* * *

4\. astrology

Midorima will talk for hours about astrology, houses and sun signs and moon signs and the power of Oha-Asa, and Murasakibara will listen through it. He’s not sure if he believes in any of that; it seems too convenient and too convoluted at once, but it’s based in fact (somewhere along the line) and it’s still pretty damn interesting. Even if it bored Murasakibara, he’d still listen, because it’s important to Midorima. He doesn’t get it, but he gets the way Midorima’s face gets all intense, like he’s playing shogi against Akashi or extending his shooting range a little farther than usual. It’s nice, to say succinctly, and that’s not even the whole deal.  
  
It’s why Murasakibara lets Midorima buy him lucky items, even when they’re inedible; he’ll watch Oha-Asa in the morning in Arizona when it’s still cool enough to have the windows open and drive to the mall to wander around, get lost, forget what he was supposed to be buying, and check his texts. There’s always one from Midorima, informing that his lucky item is a beverage sleeve or an orange pen or a bandage or something of the sort.   
  
Murasakibara always texts a selfie back, at an awkward angle, but he gets his face and the procured item in, and that’s what matters to Midorima, and he can rest a little easier knowing Murasakibara’s protected from the vengeful spirits of astrology or something.   
  
(It’s not like it actually helps with his free-throw percentage or gives him the extra assist that nets him another triple-double; stats don’t matter anyway.)  
  
When they’re together for the summer they watch it in the morning in the couch, Murasakibara’s arm around Midorima’s waist.  
  
“It’s too hot,” Midorima says, and Murasakibara nuzzles the back of Midorima’s neck, licking at his sweat (it tastes awful but it makes Midorima all bushy and flustered, even after however long this has all been going on).  
  
“You’re too hot,” Murasakibara says, and the effect is exactly as intended.  
  
Midorima never throws him off the couch, though sometimes Murasakibara wonders if he’d like to try—but then he wouldn’t hear his lucky item, or receive the psychic good vibes of Oha-Asa through the TV or whatever actually watching the show means, if anything. And so, maybe, in this way astrology has had a net positive influence on their relationship, objectively, outside any of the motions of the stars. Murasakibara won’t struggle to get on board with that.

* * *

5\. dog days

August is fading, not quick enough but not slow enough, the eternal summer paradox that Atsushi’s always kind of hated. The days are getting noticeably shorter, especially when they’re as far north as Boston, and it makes no sense that back in the fifty-degree mid-June they’d gotten more sunlight than they’re getting now (when it hadn’t been raining, and when they’d been in town for games). It’s hot; it’s humid; Atsushi wanst to be able to fast-forward to October, but that means training camp and the season and the eternal grind that he’s still not recovered from. He groans from his position; next to him on the bed Shintarou turns.  
  
“What is it now?”  
  
Atsushi sighs, looking at Shintarou’s face. He’s still sunburned; despite his best efforts he’d gone for a run the other day that had gone a bit too long and he’d ended up with a rosy face, a lovely blossom on his skin that’ll fade back to tan too soon. Atsushi had already kissed all over it earlier; they’d had the slow kind of summertime sex that they only get about a two-hour window for when it’s cool enough and they’re both awake. Shintarou had taken a long nap afterwards, curling up against Atsushi’s side; he still hasn’t put on his glasses and he’s squinting up through the lovely net of his eyelashes. Atsushi thinks about leaning over and kissing his eye, but it might not be wroth it; he’s already made Shintarou put up with enough today.  
  
“I don’t want to go back to work.”  
  
“We have time,” says Shintarou, but he sounds doubtful himself, wavering on the edge.   
  
Technically they do, but time passes quicker and quicker the older they get; the months between seasons fly by faster. Atsushi’s less than a calendar year away from free agency; his agent’s still heard no news from the team about an extension, and while it’s not an anxiety gnawing on either of them yet, it will be before they know it, before the winter comes and the days feel like all of two hours and they quarrel over the thermostat.   
  
These days are better, for all their heat and humidity, and Atsushi would stretch them longer if he could, like a piece of gum in his mouth before he snaps it with a loud sound between his teeth. He leans down to kiss Shintarou’s mouth; he’s not going to bring it up now.  
  
“Go back to sleep.”  
  
“Join me,” says Shintarou (it’s not as if Atsushi’s ever needed an invitation).

* * *

6\. cool showers/baths together

The first few days of summer they always take cool baths together. The water is cold on their feet as they get in, and it takes Shintarou a while before his body’s close to used to it. Atsushi’s already leaning back; his warm chest against Shintarou’s back and shoulders helps mitigate the cold; the stagnant air helps, too (if that can be called a help so much as a hindrance that leads them to this temperature of the water in the first place). They can’t wash off the bruises and aches of the season, at least not all at once, but they can scrub at the grime until the water is grey and smells like all the soap they’ve used and they drain it, the hot air making their bodies feel cold as they stand up.  
  
The longer they stay in Boston together the more they stretch the routine out into the summer; there’s no reason to let it go when it’s close to triple digits with high humidity and they’re going to have to basically walk around naked anyway, even with all the fans going in every window, so loud they can barely hear one another walk, the familiar creak of the floorboards under their NBA-player weights masked by the roar of plastic blades cutting the air.   
  
They don’t need fans in the bathroom; there’s one exhaust vent but they usually leave it shut off, the window open with the vain hope that the outside air will start moving without the aid of a thunderstorm. The sky outside is a light grey; the morning fog is all gone; there’s just haze and an unimpressive threat of a mighty drizzle against the sidewalk three stories down. Shintarou sits comfortably in Atsushi’s lap (and Shintarou is so grateful he’d chosen an apartment with a larger bathtub than he’d thought was necessary before he’d picked the place; he’d blame it on fate or direction, but that doesn’t matter as long as this is how it’s all turned out).   
  
Atsushi kisses his cool, soapy shoulder; Shintarou breathes out, flexing his bare fingers under the water. These days, they don’t like to get out until both of their fingers are wrinkled like sundried artichokes, deep grooves on the pads that Shintarou sometimes fears will never vanish, that Atsushi always kisses (“to make it go away for you”) and Shintarou pretends not to fall for (although really, who is he fooling).

* * *

7\. your fingers

Atsushi’s fingers are long. They’re not as proportionally long to the palms of his hands as Shintarou’s are (the extra-large gloves he tries on in the stores always too baggy in the palms, too thin and tight in the fingers, and they’re never long enough to fit properly anyway), which Shintarou doesn’t quite like admitting is a point of pride—but at his size, it’s really all about absolutes. With hands like that, he could probably play a fifteenth on the piano with no trouble, reach around the neck of a double bass with ease, play the most convoluted guitar chords. He has fingers for music, and yet he doesn’t use them for it; it’s the most vexing thing about him in Shintarou’s opinion, a whole world at his literal fingertips that he doesn’t even try to touch.  
  
“I can’t carry a tune,” he says. “I don’t get music.”  
  
It’s never too late to learn; it’s never too late to try (and no, Shintarou does not have elaborate fantasies about playing the most difficult four-hand pieces with him).  
  
“I like when you play the piano; I don’t need to,” Atsushi says, and he doesn’t get it at all, does he?  
  
He’s got a sense of rhythm; that much is clear when they’re getting hyped up for a game in the locker room, one of the European guys sliding in shitty techno among the loud collection of classic rap and rock hits, and whatever’s big on the radio right now. Atsushi taps his feet in perfect rhythm, sometimes shimmies up to Shintarou and everyone laughs; Shintarou moves with him for a little bit but it feels awkward to tease something that’s really there, just hidden from plain view.   
  
“It just feels like a waste,” Shintarou says, trying to make his voice sound a little less bitter.  
  
Atsushi shrugs, not as easy-come-easy-go as he seems but still that way for some things, this included. “I use my fingers for lots of things. Or have you forgotten?”  
  
Shintarou rolls his eyes, but, well. It’s too early to give up on Atsushi, not when there’s so much time out in front of him, so many pieces they could play, so many things they could do. They don’t have to share everything; Shintarou’s fine with that (and there’s already a lot that they do). But it would be nice if they could share music, too.

* * *

8\. differences

They have shared so much for so long that it’s almost impossible to comprehend being separated by geography all over again. They did Tokyo and Akita; they did fucking Phoenix and Boston, Los Angeles and Boston. But they’ve been together, Boston and Boston (Tokyo and Tokyo for some summers) for so damn long now that it’s fucking surreal how Atsushi’s just been traded, a so-called centerpiece of the Celtics team, the three conference championships, one of them a league championship, the consistent top seeding, the scoring, the defense.  
  
He’s apparently too old to be worth more than a couple of draft picks to the organization. It’s a business; that’s what the GM had told him, as if condescending to a child. Atsushi had nodded and let his agent do the talking, halfway numbed out. There hadn’t been enough time to really talk to Shintarou; they’d taken a cab back from practice instead of the T and Shintarou had cried into his shoulder, quiet fury on his face (he’s a company man through and through, the Celtics’ guy all the way since the first round of that draft, and they have never done anything to him that felt so much like betrayal). Shintarou has a no-movement clause in his contract; Atsushi had been traded from the Lakers with years of a tacked-on extension left and no clauses in particular, no opt-outs.   
  
“I hate this,” Shintarou had whispered, hugging Atsushi as if he was going to physically hold him here, as if that would work.  
  
Atsushi had wanted it to, but he’d gone down to the cab anyway, because one of them has to pretend like it’s being held together and that one’s so often Shintarou that it might as well be Atsushi this time.   
  
They are in different places, different time zones, all over again; the weather here in Cleveland is different and Atsushi’s not sure he likes it. The people are different, too; of course there’s no Shintarou but the players and coaches have a different dynamic that Atsushi doesn’t quite fit into yet.  
  
“It’ll pass; you’ll be great,” Aomine says, and maybe it will.   
  
“I miss you,” Atsushi says to Shintarou’s voicemail, when he knows Shintarou’s playing a game.  
  
Shintarou calls him back late, exhaustion in his voice, what feels like a light year away (and it might as well be, for all the physical good Atsushi can do from here).   
  
“I miss you, too,” he murmurs, and Atsushi pretends they’re both back in Boston, falling asleep next to each other, and for a moment it almost works.

* * *

9\. Two toothbrushes one cup

Murasakibara’s older siblings hadn’t given him much advice before he’d gone away to school. “Don’t spend all your money on snacks,” his sister had said, and “Don’t fight,” his oldest brother had said. His second brother had just rolled his eyes and said that Murasakibara wasn’t all that likely to take any advice he’d give (which was probably true), but his last brother had thought for a bit.  
  
“Always keep an extra toothbrush,” he’d said, and that had been that.  
  
Maybe it’s a dumb prank, a bet with one of Murasakibara’s other brothers that if they visit him they’ll find the toothbrush and then they’ll both laugh at how dumb they think he is for a year or something, but it seems harmless enough to go and buy an extra at the drugstore.  
  
Murasakibara doesn’t expect it to come in handy for the reason it does, but in retrospective it makes perfect sense (and he has to hand it to his brother for giving him advice that’s actually useful when it comes to his personal life).  
  
“Is it really okay for me to stay over?” Midorima had said (the rest of his team, here for a game, is staying a hotel; there’s a bed reserved for Midorima there, but, well).   
  
“Yeah,” says Murasakibara. "I have an extra toothbrush.”  
  
He rummages through the cabinet; it’s not too close to the back, still in its wrapper. “Here.”  
  
Midorima’s eyes widen; he blushes—maybe it’s sort of intimate? Murasakibara kisses him after they share his tube of toothpaste, both of them tasting like fresh mints. Midorima holds it for longer than usual, and Murasakibara’s more than a little pleased with both of them.  
  
Midorima leaves the spare toothbrush in the cup next to Mursaskibara’s, and Murasakibara never bothers to put it away. It’s a little reminder of Midorima, a small thing that says he’d been there (Murasakibara’s not sappy enough to go so far as to call it a token of their relationship; it’s a damn toothbrush).   
  
Midorima comes back for a long weekend a few months later.  
  
“You kept the toothbrush,” he says, when he comes out of the bathroom.  
  
“Of course I did,” says Murasakibara.   
  
Midorima hugs him tightly, a little more open and vulnerable than he usually gets, and despite the heat Murasakibara pulls him closer, kissing the top of his head until his hair is rumpled and he pretends to be annoyed but he’s really just cute.   
  
Murasakibara texts his brother a thanks for the advice when he falls asleep next to Midorima that night.  
  
 _What advice?_  
  
 _nvm_


	55. sakurai, summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12290537#cmt12290537)
> 
> 3/9

1\. watermelon (imasaku)

On an ordinary lazy day, Imayoshi would be content to relax and play video games in his room until his sister yelled at him about the heat from his computer and dragged him out to the library. Today’s a lazy day, but it’s pretty extraordinary, at least in terms of the company Imayoshi’s keeping. Sakurai’s only here for the weekend, one small part of Imayoshi’s long college summer break and easy part-time job the only sliver he can take away from training and cramming for college applications.  
  
The circles under his eyes are dark, like a raccoon or two moons just half-full (but Imayoshi’s not that poetic; he’d stolen that from some writer or other, he forgets who). He spends the whole first night sleeping in Imayoshi’s arms, his body bruised and toned from the training, his hands still calloused over where they hold a pencil.   
  
But today they’re taking things slowly; no matter how much Sakurai tries to think about tests and preoccupy his mind with new plays Momoi’s having them run, Imayoshi’s not going to let him get too far. He carves another slice out of the watermelon, the puddle of slightly-sticky water growing on the porch underneath, and hands it over.  
  
“It’s good to be lazy,” says Imayoshi, leaning back against the wall of the house.   
  
Sakurai looks very doubtful.  
  
“Don’t trust me, hmm?”   
  
“I’m sorry,” Sakurai says, hands curling, quieter than usual.  
  
Imayoshi lifts an eyebrow; Sakurai lifts his head, almost flinching back. He takes a bite of the watermelon; Imayoshi watches his features soften like the edges of an ice cube on the sidewalk as he chews.  
  
“Refreshing, right?”  
  
Sakurai nods. “Thank you.”  
  
Imayoshi cuts himself a bigger piece, smile widening as Sakurai’s wet lips pout. He’s really cute, really easy (though Imayoshi reckons the stress and exhaustion have at least a little bit to do with that right now). Imayoshi leans forward to smack a kiss on Sakurai’s nose.  
  
“You could give me a real one.”  
  
“Why don’t you take one?” says Imayoshi.  
  
Sakurai finishes his watermelon first, gnawing all the pink-red from the rind, and placing it carefully on the porch, resting at a gap between the boards. He rises to his knees, then pulls Imayoshi’s wrist away from his face (and Imayoshi was just about to have another bite, too).  
  
His lips are sweet and soft, the perfect relief from the heat wave.

* * *

2\. fireflies (aosaku) 

Ryou’s not an outdoor person, but this is nice. Trying to put up a tent hadn’t been fun (he and Daiki had ended up arguing and Daiki had had to redo the whole thing) but after that things had smoothed themselves out, set themselves up inside and gone for a hike. The ground is rough, but Ryou’s still in good shape from basketball, and even though it’s dirty and gross (especially the bugs Daiki keeps trying to point out to him) it’s actually quite pretty around here. The view from the top of the mountain is lovely, the small town where Daiki’s aunt lives spreading out below them like a map, like a color page at the beginning of a manga, setting the scene (and Ryoui’s fingers are itching to draw something like it; he’d brought his sketchpad and he’s definitely going back there tomorrow).   
  
The brook Daiki insists on bathing in is cold, but it’s refreshing at midday and Daiki’s fingers feel nice washing his back. The little fish slide through his fingers, tickling his hands, and he turns to Daiki and laughs. Daiki’s grinning too, quick and easy, the way he never used to do but now gives a little more freely, always like he means it.   
  
And then Daiki pulls him down into the water and Ryou shrieks, punching at his shoulder and trying to duck him in, too, and when they get out they’re shivering but happy, sticking close to each other for heat (and each stealing a kiss or two).  
  
The sun sets, pink and purple across the clear sky, the sun glowing like the charcoal in their grill as they watch the smoke flit upward and dissipate, a hazy filter to the sky. In the backdrop of the spearmint-green trees, there is something like a yellow sparkle, a holiday light or a glitter in the middle of the panel of a comic. Then another.  
  
“Fireflies,” says Ryou, almost questioning.  
  
“Yeah,” says Daiki. “Cool, huh?”  
  
They’re still bugs; that bit’s still gross, but far away they make a pretty picture. Ryou slides closer to Daiki on the wooden bench; Daiki kisses the top of his forehead.   
  
“What do you want to make first? Marshmallows?”  
  
“Meat would be better,” says Ryou. “How much did we bring in the freezer pack?”  
  
“Enough,” says Daiki.   
  
The bag is between them and the grill; neither of them moves to get it. The fireflies rise into a formation, almost like a constellation (soon, Ryou knows, they’ll be able to see the stars out here). The wind darts below them; Ryou snuggles closer to Daiki. He’s glad they’d come here.

* * *

3\. sunscreen (wakasaku)

Wakamatsu’s back is broad; this isn’t a new revelation Sakurai’s had suddenly. Still, though, even when he’s being careful with how much sunscreen he uses, he’s got to refill his hands more than he’s accustomed to to cover it, rubbing the white into the slight tan of Wakamatsu’s skin. It’s really something, the way his muscles ripple, the definition of his shoulders and the back of his arms.   
  
“Everything okay?” says Wakamatsu.  
  
Sakurai feels his face turn the color of a cooked crustacean, and no amount of sunscreen or aloe is going to bring that down anytime soon. “I’m sorry I’m taking so long!”  
  
“It’s okay,” says Wakamatsu. “I know you’re doing a thorough job.”  
  
He glances over his shoulder, shooting his captain-grin down, and Sakurai can’t help but smile back.   
  
“You look a little rosy.”  
  
Sakurai’s cheeks are encased in flames, as if he’s being pulled into a volcano (part of him wants to be; this is embarrassing as hell even if they are going out). “I’m fine! I just have to reapply; let me finish you…”  
  
“Sure,” says Wakamatsu.  
  
Sakurai doesn’t delay, rubbing in a few other spaces, up the back of Wakamatsu’s neck (he feels Wakamatsu’s sigh through his skin and wants to sigh himself). And, well, there’s nothing worse than not getting the edges, so Sakurai cakes his palms in white lotion again and dips them just under Wakamatsu’s waistband. Wakamatsu nearly jumps; the back of his neck colors and Sakurai’s fingers nearly slip, just above Wakamatsu’s ass and around the side of his hips.  
  
“Just in case,” he says.  
  
“Fuck," says Wakamatsu. “That was hot.”  
  
“That was safe,” says Sakurai, though a smile is playing on his face; Wakamatsu turns around to look down at him and kisses him full on the mouth.  
  
There is sunscreen on the edges of his lips; it tastes bitter when it smears against Sakurai’s tongue but he reaches up to steady himself against Wakamatsu’s sturdy shoulder. He thinks, absently, that he could help with the front, but maybe that’s a little too much. It’s definitely a little (a lot?) too much (Sakurai wants to do it anyway). He steps down to his feet, bare against the cool asphalt of the shaded parking lot.  
  
“Let me get your back, too,” says Wakamatsu, pink still dusting his face, the color of weathered bricks.   
  
Sakurai nods and hands over the sunscreen, turning himself around.


	56. garciraki, long-distance etc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12417769#cmt12417769)
> 
> 6/9

1\. anniversaries forgotten

Masako’s flipping through her messages to try and find the selfie Alex had sent her a few months back, at the beach with her hair half-undone and half-wet, posing with sunglasses perched at the end of her nose, eyes visible over the top. It’s ridiculous, but she needs to see something like this when the Akita winters get too bad and there’s a foot of snow on the ground and school’s been cancelled, the practice match too, and the days are short and dark, like the world is perpetually in an inescapable shadow.  
  
She must have scrolled past it; she’s into April and March, after Alex’s visit when they’d only just started giving this a try and even the flirtier texts were a little stilted, both of them afraid of going too far even with the security of known mutual affection, dipping their toes into the unknown snow, at opposite ends of a wi-fi connection, latitude and longitude bands around the globe marking their separation. It’s amusing and a little bit cringeworthy sometimes, but then there’s the pictures they’d started sending each other of lunch every day, a reminder of each other’s schedules and preferences, and an incentive for Masako to doll up her bento a little bit more (she’s not one for false appearances, but she’d wanted to make a good impression and she’s still doing it, curling the seaweed like ribbon and arranging her rice into a perfect scoop shape sprinkled with sesame). She scrolls farther up, into February, into January last year, to today’s date, a very awkward text message indeed. Oh.  
  
Sure enough, there’s Alex’s message, the “I like you, so maybe the next time I’m in Akita we could do something?” and her own affirmative reply. Fuck, yesterday was their anniversary, wasn’t it? Even in Alex’s time zone it’s today, in the early morning; they’d both forgotten. It’s not like those things matter much to Masako, but, still—it’s worthy of recognition. She hits Alex’s beach selfie on the way back down to the latest messages and downloads a local copy, and then composes a new message.  
  
“We’ve been going out a year ago yesterday.”  
  
She’s looking at the picture, trying to imagine the world ever having this much sun, when her phone begins to vibrate with an incoming call from Alex.  
  
“Holy shit, Masako, I’m so sorry! I can’t believe I forgot!”  
  
“I forgot, too,” says Masako. “I’m not mad, just thought it was interesting.”  
  
Alex huffs. “You sure?”  
  
“Yes,” says Masako. “I was just scrolling through my text messages. Went a little farther back than I wanted.”  
  
Alex laughs, low; Masako can tell she’s thinking about their awkward flirting and conversations, probably the first time they'd tried sexting, too, and at that she stifles a snort.  
  
“We were ridiculous.”  
  
“Aren’t we still?” says Alex.  
  
“Maybe you are.”  
  
Alex sighs, not in annoyance or like she’s taken offense, like she wants to be there and say these things in person (or maybe that’s the tight feeling in Masako’s chest speaking, but at this point she’s confident enough to say it’s probably mutual).   
  
“Happy anniversary,” Masako says. “Belated. Miss you.”  
  
“Miss you, too,” says Alex.   
  
There's still a warm feeling under Masako’s chest after they hang up, like a little bit of Alex’s LA sunlight from July has permeated the room.

* * *

2\. sick at the same time

Masako gets hit with a cold on Friday night, and Alex wakes up with the same thing on Saturday morning, crawling in from where she’d slept on the couch and depositing herself next to Masako on the bed.  
  
“I’m contagious,” says Masako.  
  
“Can’t hurt me; I’m sick, too,” says Alex, cuddling closer, and her forehead’s burning.  
  
The temperature's only just above a hundred fahrenheit (Masako can do the conversion in her head; Alex scrunches her eyebrows and it’s clear she’s lost that train of thought before she does it, and even if she’s sick it’s pretty cute). At least this is just tiredness and a sore throat, no stuffy nose or vomiting (yet, Masako shouldn’t jinx it), and even like this they can probably take care of each other.   
  
Alex dozes off, face buried in all of the pillows as Masako sits up, immediately wishing she hadn’t. Her brain is pounding against her skull; she closes her eyes and curls her fingers around the sheets (God, she smells bad, like sickness itself). She needs ibuprofen and water; Alex needs water, too, and probably the spare blanket Masako had thrown to the floor last night. Masako picks it up, tocking it around Alex; Alex snuggles down into it.  
  
Masako should probably take a shower; she looks halfheartedly at the pillow and blanket and Alex’s glasses, strewn around the couch; that’s too much effort. Medicine, water. She grabs a couple of bottles from the refrigerator and the ibuprofen from its place next to the microwave, attempting to swallow two dry before giving in and pouring a third of the bottle of water down her throat and choking them down. Her head is still pounding; she squints. It’ll take a while to kick in, but instant gratification would be nice, especially when she's got to head all the way back to the bedroom.  
  
Alex is still lying under the blankets; Masako feels her forehead and it’s the same. She puts the pills and the water on the table on Alex’s side and then climbs in, pulling herself under the covers (it’s getting cold again). She spoons Alex from behind; she’s sweating and it feels gross but Masako feels pretty damn gross herself. She closes her eyes and tries not to smell the sweat as much, and Alex’s hand curls around her wrist, hugging it against her waist. She’s too tired to stay awake; the pounding in her head is still dominating but the more she focuses on it the more bearable it is, and the closer she gets to drifting off again.

* * *

3\. time spent missing each other

Alex has probably spent more time, quantifiable hours and minutes and seconds, days and weeks and months, missing Masako than being with her. Even if she’s being particularly generous and counting the sum of hours sleeping in the same bed as being together, and sleeping alone as not missing, it’s still skewed away from togetherness. It’s the nature of their relationship; it’s always been this way and for now it’s something they have to live with (and relationships are not about quantification, who loves who the most, who gives the most things, who spends the most money) and yet.  
  
It wears on her sometimes, a pair of shoes that rub her heels, that no matter how many times she wears her skin can’t get used to, leaving her blistered and raw. There’s a tangible amount of happiness she still gets when Masako texts or leaves a message, a social media notification, not as much or as heart-wrenching as when they’d started, but still. And it has to be enough, but just knowing that there’s more, that it’s a possibility, that she doesn’t have to drive down the highway with the passenger’s seat empty and when she sees a dumb thing she wants to point out to Masako she could just nudge her shoulder and laugh instead of wondering whether it’s worth it to take a picture.   
  
Alex’s life is not empty; she has friends and interests and basketball, but if Masako was there, physically—whenever she is, it feels a hell of a lot fuller, bigger, like a moon that’s waxed all the way to a perfect circle spotlight in the night sky. She’d rather not be the blue-stained daytime moon, half-full and not noticed by everyone looking at the ground.   
  
She could tell Masako, send her a text that says “I miss you” but that does no good when both of their bodies are itching with wanting to cross the distance; it’ll only make them both feel worse that they’re not together; it’s only something Alex can say physically, on the phone or through a video call (or in person, but she’d never need occasion to say it in the present tense).  
  
The gap in the score will only increase as far as the future as Alex can see (and maybe it’s a blessing she’s so nearsighted now), not quite as far as someday. Her phone buzzes.  
  
 _I love you_  
  
Alex clutches her phone tightly, reading the words over and over again until she can hear Masako saying them clearly in her mind.

* * *

4\. Christmas stuck at the airport

They’d planned for Christmas weekend in Tokyo, a whimsical last few days before Alex has to go back (she can’t avoid the horrors of international holiday travel forever, as much as she’d like to, but Narita to LAX directly is a little bit less of a hassle if she doesn’t have to come from Akita right before). They hadn’t planned on a particularly shitty weather forecast (how often recently have they had snow at Christmas?) and they certainly hadn’t planned on it grounding their flight entirely.  
  
The airport’s crowded with holiday traffic, travelers stuck on their way everywhere, lines at the fast food places lengthening as they deliberate.   
  
“I’ll get us some burgers,” says Alex, and Masako nods.  
  
She’d planned on sleeping on the flight (maybe they should have taken the train; even if the tracks need to be cleared it’s still more reliable than the option of having to take off into the air with snow caked to the plane and coming down hard); the airport seats are even more uncomfortable than those on a coach flight, and fuck, they’re going to be here until tomorrow, maybe even through it.  
  
What a way to spend Christmas. They don’t get much time in the same city; they don’t get real dates too often (the ones over Skype don’t count, okay), especially on holidays like their birthdays or Valentine’s, or especially Christmas. And Masako’s not going to dwell on it, not going to let it ruin anything, but.   
  
“It sucks,” Alex says, and she’s not talking about the half-cold, flat burger in her hands or the over-salted fries.   
  
“Yeah,” says Masako, grabbing a fry from Alex’s bag.  
  
They should be in a hotel right now, Alex complaining about the seat in front digging into her knees; they should have a dumb movie on TV and Alex should be kissing Masako instead of letting their fingers touch awkwardly in a greasy paper bag like teenagers eating popcorn at the movies.  
  
“At least we’re together,” says Alex, smiling gently, and fuck.  
  
It’s definitely not a losing deal, in any sense of the word, even though it could be a hell of a lot better and Masako’s back will murder her tomorrow because she’s going to end up sleeping in this shitty airport chair. She smiles back, leaning her head on Alex’s shoulder. Alex pats her knee.   
  
“Wake me up if they schedule our flight,” she murmurs, and she feels Alex’s lips brush her forehead before she drifts off.

* * *

5\. boring Sundays

They make concrete plans so rarely that it always feels like a bit of a cheat when those plans get canceled, dropped by a sudden change in weather or circumstances several degrees outside of their control. But it’s never the end of the world, even if it’s disappointing for a few minutes; they always roll with it. And it’s not that they’d rather be playing basketball in the first place, but—who is Alex kidding? There’s a part of her, a part that she can recognize just as well in Masako, that holds a particular kind of love for basketball. There’s a part of her she always leaves out on the court, swishing through the hoop, tied to a block and bouncing between her legs like a dribble.   
  
They don’t need excuse or pretense; they just do. Alex dribbles across, staying low, into Masako’s territory, trying to beat her there, but it’s futile against Masako’s iron defense, aggressive at picking off the ball and bringing it back to herself, taking it down the court and ducking away and around Alex. Alex stays high the next time down, keeping back, not driving too hard. Still, Masako pushes her back, out; Alex pushes back and closer to the arc. She takes the three-pointer anyway, a jumper above where Masako can reach to block, released at her peak. The ball clatters out of the hoop and Masako grabs the rebound. Alex swears under her breath.  
  
Masako tries to get around her but Alex’s reach is too long; the few inches between their heights makes all the wingspan difference in the world, enough for the piece Alex grabs of the ball to send it closer to her as they both lunge forward. It ends up in Alex’s hands, though not for lack of trying on Masako’s end.   
  
“Fuck,” Masako says, through a breath.  
  
Alex darts forward, laughing, toward the hoop; she has enough time and uses enough energy to lengthen her stride to get right under the hoop for the easy layout. The score’s even now, and they’re just barely getting tired.  
  
Maybe if they were another couple this would just be another boring Sunday with no plans and nothing to do. But they keep themselves occupied well, Alex thinks (and when she wins, she gets to steal a kiss from Masako at the side of the court, her hand cupping Masako’s sweaty, flushed cheek, more than just a little bonus).

* * *

6\. skipped lunch

Alex wakes up to find Masako still asleep, sprawled out next to her with her hair lying fanned out on the pillow. Her hand is curled around the edge of Alex’s tank top, her face relaxed and pretty fucking gorgeous. Alex hasn’t really gotten a good look at her since she’d gotten in, only everything clicking in her mind before she’d rushed into a hug at the airport, her hands finding their way to rest at the small of Masako’s back, warm through even her suit jacket (Masako flying in a suit is one of the most endearing things about her, if Alex has to choose—but then that’s more than half of her characteristics and quirks, if Alex is choosing, so maybe it doesn’t mean as much). The shitty airport lighting is designed to make people look washed out; the car’s not much better and the lights of her apartment at night aren’t all that forgiving themselves.  
  
But now, here, the light’s streaming through both windows (Alex has never been more glad she's got a corner bedroom, southeast light at its best and softest) and Masako almost glows. Her skin’s toned from outdoor basketball, morning training on the track with the kids, her mouth a rosy pink. Her eyelashes cast miniature shadows on her cheek, small and jagged and fine but very much there. The shape of her cheekbones is clear, the slope of her nose. She is so beautiful; her forehead creases and her mouth puckers when Alex tells her but it’s the absolute truth. It’s not the only thing Alex likes about her, and it never has been (basketball was on there first and foremost), but that doesn’t make it not worth noting, not worth staring.  
  
It’s noon before Masako wakes up, and Alex is more than a little hungry. Masako says she is, too, but she doesn’t make a move to get out of bed, lazier than Alex has ever seen her, and Alex wants to spoil her like a pet cat given a bit more leeway than usual. She leans over to kiss Masako, inhaling her gross breath and lacing their fingers together.  
  
“Get me some coffee,” Masako demands, pushing her off. “Sex after that”  
  
“Am I that easy to read?” says Alex.  
  
“Yeah,” says Masako. “But look at you.”  
  
Alex looks down; she’s wearing more than usual for a morning in bed (like, the tank top, hanging forward from her frame, loose on her stomach and hips). There’s nothing particularly sexy about it, not to her, but she’ll have to file that away under useful information for the next time they’re together. Or tomorrow night, whichever.


	57. liuhimu, various

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12251881#cmt12251881)
> 
> 6/9 (+1 posted separately)

1\. Destiny is cheap

It makes it worse to say that maybe they just weren’t meant to have this. Tatsuya forgets who volunteers that, one of the other third-years as a balm to the bitterness of defeat; he balls up his fists under the table and no one notices because they’re all crying, all focused on their own insides, their own grief and loss. Basketball is a team sport, but it hurts them all separately; perhaps it’s oddly fitting that after this loss they will go their separate ways. But that’s too much like thinking about fate all over again, and Tatsuya takes another breath.  
  
Wei is looking at him, eyes red and puffy but sharp on the back of his neck; he’d felt Tatsuya’s fist move against his leg and Tatsuya doesn’t feel like explaining. He doesn’t feel like anything, really, other than sending his rage in crashing waves the way he knows he’s not supposed to.  
  
The bus ride back to Akita is quiet, the sound of the tires on asphalt and then, as they go north, salt, preparation for the storm, the hum of the diesel engine. The lights are off; everyone is asleep. Across the aisle from them, Coach’s head is leaning on the window, her suit jacket on the empty seat next to her. She looks worn down but at least she gets another crack at this, more years and more teams and more Winter Cups (more disappointment too, perhaps, so maybe it evens out).  
  
Wei’s hand is on the inside of Tatsuya’s leg, just above his knee. He’s been looking out the window the whole time, letting Tatsuya lean against his shoulder; he turns his head now and looks at Tatsuya’s face.  
  
“What was that about?” he says.  
  
It’s ambiguous enough that Tatsuya has room to deflect if he wants; it’s a courtesy Wei’s been extending him about which Tatsuya feels almost guilty. It’s good to have the room, especially when he’s tired and miserable and the thoughts are careening and bouncing across his mind like pinballs in a machine, rocked from side to side about what he could have done, what he should have done.  
  
“Blaming it all on fate,” says Tatsuya. “I don’t like it.”  
  
Wei lifts his arm, dropping it around Tatsuya’s shoulders and pulling him in against his side, a position all-too-familiar but one that hurts just a little bit; they haven’t officially resigned yet but they’re no longer really captain and vice, first and second.  
  
“Control?” Wei guesses.  
  
“It’s more like…agency. What does anything you or I do matter if we were meant to lose?”  
  
Wei hums; he doesn’t get it, really, but he lets it rest. Tatsuya closes his eyes; he feels the brush of Wei’s lips against his forehead. It doesn’t soften the blow, much. Blaming everything on destiny, sitting in the comfort of being meant for something, is the easy way out, something that eases the blow of bitterness right now. Is it worth the price of denying your own agency, your own efforts? Tatsuya’s never seen the point of it; it always sounds to him like an excuse not to try. It’s so easy to be tempted to give up, to throw everything away, but it cuts deeper and longer, regret burning the smoother scar. Everyone’s dealt a hand, but anyone can bluff their way into house money. Just because someone else has a royal straight flush doesn’t mean they’ll play it right; just because they’re meant to win doesn’t mean they will. Destiny is cheap; victory is expensive, and victory is earned, not predisposed (such a victory would feel mediocre, taste sour on his tongue, not a victory at all because there would be nothing to defeat).  
  
It’s hard to express, hard to think about, even; he ends up going in circles. Fuck fate. This is his defeat, the fall he’s taking. This is his own doing, this moment, the bitter hurt and the steady rise and fall of Wei’s chest, the two of them fitting together like bridge beams. There is no higher power behind this, only them.

* * *

2\. I know you're here to spy on our secret evil organization im actually tired of being here lets take em down from within

There’s no mistaking that this is Liu’s target. Bangs over his left eye, drop-dead gorgeous, smirk on his lips, the right height and weight. He doesn’t look much like a higher-up in a terror organization, but that’s perhaps what makes Himuro so effective, a silent killer, evil disguised as sweetness. Liu tells himself not to look to hard, that it will give him away, but he still ends up looking a little too long. Himuro meets his gaze, steady and appraising. The smile spreads on his face; he flicks an eyebrow as if he like what he sees. Liu swallows. He’d been sent here to destroy the organization from within, point a gun at this man’s heart, not to flirt with him.  
  
Then again, honey traps can be quite effective, and even though that’s not part of Liu’s plan it might be a quicker way than trying to work his way up. He’s just got to work his way into Himuro’s bed, skip the sweet-talk part (because he’s always been too blunt to get information out that way) and show the weapons, get him to spill and go in for the kill. With someone like Himuro, it’s never that simple, but Liu will make it work.  
  
“Liu Wei,” says the chief, Okamura, a brawny man with a beard who bears an uncanny resemblance to a gorilla. “Police defector.”  
  
Himuro’s whole body shifts; Liu steadies his gaze. “That’s right.”  
  
“Don’t think I’ll trust you right away just so you can go ratting out all of our secrets to your police buddies.”  
  
“What police buddies?” says Liu.  
  
“He’s got a point,” says another man (Fukui, if the piles of information Liu had been given are correct). “Swapped partners three times. Had a nasty exit.”  
  
(The exit was part of the setup; the partners who’d quit and retired were accidental but what led him to be chosen for this operation in the first place.)  
  
Both Okamura and Fukui are peering at Liu now; Himuro remains placid.  
  
“Show him the ropes,” Fukui says, pushing him over to Himuro.  
  
Himuro is as gracious and charming as he is attractive, and Liu feels himself loosening, opening up just a little bit. The stakes are still high, but he might as well try to have some fun and flirt back. He finds, soon, that he likes hearing Himuro’s laugh, and even when he’s trying to dig out useful information (or something that might lead to it) sometimes he finds himself putting in an aside or diverting the subject, just a little, to make him do it. It helps the ruse; Liu reminds himself of that seemingly more and more each day.  
  
He’s the one who invites Himuro back to his own room, weeks later. It’s bugged; he knows that much, but he can get them where they’re out of view of the cameras, for the most part, and where the sound of their voices carry less to the mics, make it look like an accident. Even if showing this would give them more of a reason to trust him, they still know it’s going on. But this is too much to show them, too much to let them have it.  
  
“You’re not subtle at all,” Himuro says, lying on top of his chest after, and Liu tries to slow his pounding heart by telling himself Himuro’s talking about the flirting. “How long are you planning on staying before you give it all away?”  
  
He’s not.  
  
Himuro looks at him carefully. He’s been talking low enough that the microphones probably haven’t picked him up, unless he’s got one implanted in his body without a scar (or unless that other eye is one giant camera).  
  
“I don’t know,” Liu says.  
  
“I know you’ve got a bad track record, but are you looking for a partner?”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
Himuro shrugs. “I’m sick of the way things are here. I’ll help you take it down.”  
  
It doesn’t sound like the truth, but Liu’s too unsure, wants it to be true so badly (fantasies of running away with Himuro are now trying to wrench their way through the door to his mind).  
  
“Deal,” says Liu, pulling Himuro in for another kiss.  
  
Himuro doesn’t object.

* * *

3\. Fire Emblem AU

Tatsuya is beautiful on the battlefield, terrible in his fury. He is quick to transform into a slim white dragon, snapping its jaws and breathing ice on his prey (and his opponent is almost always that; they turn from an equal or greater human into something so easily crushed by his force, dwarfed in size), great winding tail swishing and one eye blazing with the steel of a thousand lances. He’s the type of unit Yosen’s team had always needed but hadn’t known they did until he’d appeared, almost literally, flown across the ocean from a land far away (sometimes Wei wonders if he’s a prince in exile or disgrace; it’s not something he can just ask but from the way Tatsuya holds himself it seems more than barely plausible).  
  
He moves quickly, deft, unlike Wei, almost stationary in his suit of armor, lunging toward a target who darts away twice as fast (even if they do end up bumping into Tatsuya, or if the blows they land against Wei are glancing, it still feels a little bit like he’s not doing his part when it comes to offense, wielding a heavy sword but barely scratching it in his efforts). Even as a human, without wings to fly him across, he darts from position to position on the battlefield, and sometimes Wei just holds back and watches him, waits for enemy forces to charge and cuts them down.  
  
But all of life is not battle, and Wei is thankful for that. There is the castle they fight for, the home they protect; there is a reason for the fighting and a place to rest, a place where the toll of transformation seeps into Tatsuya and he sleeps in Wei’s arms all day, curled up and quite human. He is beautiful like this, too, still breathing fierce, hands tight around the blankets. When he wakes, Wei finds him by the window, staring out at the fields and the flat lands, rolling hills behind them running straight into the horizon toward the sea, perhaps towards his faraway home. Wei knows the feeling all too well, a mercenary converted to the life, the people, the way of being here. It’s not something he’d wanted, but it had happened regardless with the changing of the seasons, over and over until he’d lost count of how many had passed.  
  
Wei tries to kiss him until he forgets sometimes, but it never works. Sometimes they get close enough, though.

* * *

4\. vampire au

Tatsuya’s as cold as the crypt, as pale as the snow he lives in, the northern winter days short enough to give him flexibility of motion throughout his hunting season, a summer in which to hibernate, when people are too exhausted and sweaty to venture forth by day. Wei supposes most of that applies to him, too, and if the obviousness of the situation paints a target in Tatsuya’s back in crimson blood, there’s a similar target on his, if a little bit smaller.  
  
“You know, no one’s ever out here,” says Tatsuya, as if he can smell Wei’s thoughts just the same as Wei smells blood oozing out of a wounded deer, stumbling its way onto their territory.  
  
Wei doesn't even mentally thank whatever poor shot had pierced the deer’s skin because the bullet stains the taste of its blood, makes it staler and less pure. Tatsuya has no such qualms but he lets Wei drink his fill anyway, never offers to hunt something for Wei even though between them he’s better at that sort of thing. Then again, it would be too suspicious if, next to the deer carcass and the footprints, there were another carcass, a trail of blood. It will all be buried under the snow again tomorrow, bones picked at by winter birds, melting ice filling in the cracks and imprints, but until then—Wei looks up at the sky, the grey clouds rolling and full, oversaturated and bulging at the seams like a mosquito about to burst with its fill of blood (it’s a damn good thing that he and Tatsuya know their own limits; they are nowhere near so fragile).  
  
Tatsuya looks up, blood staining his mouth, drying on his wind-chapped lips (for all that the cold cannot bring them down into a deeper freeze that doesn’t mean their hair doesn’t stiffen when they don’t dry it completely, that their lips don’t peel). The scent of rust taints the air, intoxicatingly delicious.  
  
“There’s still more,” says Tatsuya, his fingers coated in the still-warm redness, dipping into the neck. “If you’re still hungry.”  
  
It’s no substitute for human blood (a human carcass, lying in the snow, they could only be so lucky), but here in the nowhere it will have to do. Wei crouches down next to Tatsuya in the snow, noticing where it melts around the deer’s body. Tatsuya clasps his hand, blood running between their palms, a waste they can little afford but that Tatsuya commits anyway. Wei licks it off before the blood freezes on their cold skin, kisses the remnants from Tatsuya’s mouth (what he can). He reaches down to grab the deer by the side of the head; the eye stares not seeing and Wei bites through its cheek.

* * *

5\. Hockey AU

It happens so fast, just as Liu’s about to swing his body over the boards on change, already almost to the ice. Murasakibara’s behind the play, behind the refs, jawing with one of their opponents; they’re locked together and hitting at each other’s ankles and then the other guy darts out and slashes Murasakibara straight in the wrists.  
  
Murasakibara drops his stick; the play is still going on and at least they aren't in the Yosen end. The refs haven’t whistled and there’s a battle behind the net for the puck; the guy who’d slashed Murasakibara is headed over and just before he gets there Himuro makes his move. Two sets of gloves are flicked to the ice; Himuro’s got a slight height disadvantage but it’s not enough for the other guy to hold him too far out; he lands the first punch straight in his opponent’s face. A few lefts later and the other guy is kneeling on the ice, Himuro on top of him, still trying to land another hit before the refs pull him off. He skates over; this won’t be good.  
  
“Fuckin’ slashed him—” Himuro starts, and Liu bumps him.  
  
“Look, kid,” says the ref. “We didn’t see it; you don’t hit harder than you have to—”  
  
“He just came back from a wrist injury; I’m pretty sure that’s fuckin’ targeting,” says Himuro.  
  
“Captain,” says Liu, no warning tone (none needed).  
  
Himuro glares up at him; he looks even more pissed off (they’re probably trying to hand him out an instigator penalty, which all of this can't be helping with; the last thing they need is Himuro getting another misconduct). Liu looks back down, the wild mess of Himuro’s sweaty hair, gloves tucked under his arm, fury radiating like light from a star. He needs five minutes, at least (and like this he’s still so terribly pretty, the anger and the blood on his knuckles only accentuating that and God, Liu wants to kiss him because the sight of his fist moving so fast was even more beautiful, but Himuro absolutely does not need a reward right now).  
  
The instigator minor is easy to kill. It would be easier with Himuro, the way special teams always are; there’s no one Liu would rather have taking faceoffs in the defensive zone and no one Liu would rather have aggressively chipping the puck past the blue line and out. He trusts the rest of the well-oiled Yosen machine, the interchangeable parts of a whole, the trap game ingrained into their muscles. But he trusts Himuro more.  
  
His first shift out of the box Himuro skates while he’s on fire, ignoring the chirps directed his way, designed to get him all riled up. This time he’s got focus; this time there’s no teammate to duck in and defend (Liu still feels a little victorious when he pounds their little pest into the boards and his bloody nose hits the glass; Murasakibara’s fine but he might not have been and even aside from that this is for getting Himuro in the box for five). Himuro grabs the puck in the neutral zone, off where it skips over an opponent’s stick, and this time he’s not playing. He skates like the fire from the fight is in his veins again, blasting through his skates and cutting the surface of ice before he even gets to it; he stick-handles pretty past the flat-footed left defenseman and his shot is open. He doesn’t wait for the perfect one; he lifts the puck blocker-side and it’s damn near perfect enough.  
  
Liu’s the first one in, crushing him in a hug; their lead’s up to three with four and a half to play and Himuro hugs him back, squeezing him around the waist, face buried in Liu’s chest, Liu’s heart thumping from watching that goal, the way it had carried, the bright red light, Himuro’s face.  
  
They hold the lead; their opponents crumple pretty easily after that. They try to go after Murasakibara again but the refs halt it, go harsher, and they end the game with five powerplay shots in the last minute (none go in, but if there’s ever a time to even out the averages this would be it; Coach will probably be mad but she’ll always find another reason to make them work harder).  
  
Himuro’s the good kind of tired after the game, the kind where he doesn’t really seem to feel the bruises splattered across his body and doesn’t push Liu away, physically or otherwise. The goal was pretty fucking good; he doesn’t need Liu to tell him that but Liu does anyway, whispering the words quietly in his ears under the late October wind that blows leftover rain at them, unsticking it from browning leaves. It’s getting dark out earlier, but it’s still not too dark to see Himuro’s face. He’s not satisfied or complacent (he wouldn’t be Himuro if he was really capable of that, would he?) but he looks good. Happy, even, as he slips his hand into Liu’s, the scraped skin of his knuckles brushing under Liu’s fingers.

* * *

6\. you always wait for the bus when I drive home from work with my sweet bicycle wanna have a lift

Waiting for the bus is perhaps the worst part of Wei’s very mediocre workday. Being on the bus isn’t that bad; even when he doesn’t get a seat he can stare into space and not think. Work is boring, but he’s getting really good at Fire Emblem: Heroes, thumbs swiping under the desk when his supervisor’s not around (which is most of the time) or when he’s on a call he doesn’t need to be on. The weather always sucks, though; it’s almost always too bright to see his phone screen and there’s no shade or place to sit down, and he gets to watch as traffic crawls and happy people commute home in their air-conditioned cars.  
  
Sometimes Wei wants to give them the finger, but he just sighs and unfurls his hands in his pockets and waits. He hasn't even seen the motorcyclist today, the one good thing about this wait. Always, about five minutes before the bus gets here, some guy comes zooming by on a sweet-ass motorcycle, helmet and jacket and boots and black jeans, darting and weaving through the cars as they honk at him, twice as fast like a mirage, something Wei only wishes for out of colossal boredom.  
  
He listens to the distance; the wind picks up. He can hear the familiar purr of an engine, and here he comes, going lane-to-lane, screeching in front of commuter sedans and behind old wide wagons until he stops, right in front of the bus stop. Wei stares, and the cyclist takes off his helmet.  
  
Wei’s never seen anyone this pretty before, holy shit.  
  
“You want a lift?” says the cyclist.  
  
He’s staring straight into Wei’s eyes; he could mean no one else. Maybe this is actually a daydream woven too far into reality. Wei pinches his thigh through his pants pocket, and nope. Wei nods.  
  
“Hop on,” says the cyclist, opening the seat of the bike and pulling out an extra helmet.  
  
Wei takes it; the old lady who’d been waiting with him (a semi-regular on this route) gives him a murderous look. Wei ignores it in favor of lifting the helmet over his head. It fits; the cyclist is already back on, revving up the engine. It’s a big bike; Wei wonders if it’ll handle his weight, but he’s pretty sure the cyclist will kick him off (he’s the kind of guy who would know, Wei decides, based on nothing).  
  
We swings his legs over, inching forward.  
  
“Grab my waist,” the cyclist says, before shoving his own helmet back on.  
  
And then they’re off, and holy shit. Wei holds thightly, half-afraid of being thrown, legs hugging the sides of the bike.  
  
“Let me know what's your stop!” the cyclist shouts.  
  
“Last on the route!” Wei shouts back, wondering if it’s lost in his helmet or in the wind.  
  
The cyclist takes one hand off the handlebars to give him a thumbs-up, and holy shit. They’re going so fast now, blazing through the green lights with barely enough time to look for anyone turning, making hairpin spins around other vehicles and bicyclists and pedestrians; Wei feels as if his breath’s been knocked out of him multiple times before they even hit the first red light, and he barely enjoys the feeling of the cyclist in his arms until they're nearly there, too soon and too late.  
  
God, Wei wants to do this again.  
  
He gets off, taking off his helmet and handing it over. “You, uh, want to come in?” he asks.  
  
The cyclist looks at him, amusement in his one visible eye (how the fuck he can see in traffic with his bangs like that Wei has no idea). “I have somewhere to be, but I’m free tomorrow. I'll pick you up?”  
  
Wei nods, and the cyclist gives him a cheery wave before getting on again and—shit. As he drives up and the engine fades, Wei realizes he hadn’t even gotten the guy’s name.


	58. kisehimu, cellophane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12416233#cmt12416233)
> 
> 2/9 (+1 himuro selfcest posted elsewhere)

1\. electricity floods my brain

“You’ll be fine,” says Himuro, and Kise almost believes him.  
  
Himuro’s a snake in the grass, though; he can lie his way into anything with a pleasant face and calm demeanor. It takes one to know one, and his way is quite admirable. It’s a harder mode, harder than playing the dumb blonde, anyway, though Kise finds no shame in taking the well-traveled road, the room to stray a little and still keep on the path. Himuro's more of a wild card, and it’s too often easy to tell that something’s up, just not what it is.  
  
“You’ve already given your consent,” Himuro says, leaning forward to kiss Kise, trail his lips down Kise's jaw.  
  
Kise would move away, make it a little harder, at least kiss back, but he’s already stretched to the machine.  
  
“I can revoke it,” says Kise.   
  
Himuro nods, though he really doesn’t look ready to tear up the slip of paper anytime soon. And, well, verbal consent or no, there’s probably not a lot that Kise can do about it if Himuro really wants this.   
  
“Go ahead, Sensei,” says Kise, and that’s all Himuro’s really been waiting for.  
  
He dims the lights, and readies the machine. Kise stares forward at the monitor that’s going to show him just what’s in his waking brain, and Himuro closes the machine around Kise’s face, holding it steady in the bars. Kise relaxes his jaw, and Himuro tears open a packet of gel.  
  
“This is to keep you numb, so you don't feel it when we cut the skull open,” he says, voice smooth.  
  
The gel feels cool against Kise’s just-shaved scalp, and Kise sighs.   
  
“Good, relax,” says Himuro.   
  
He applies more gel around the circumference, a little over the top, but Kise suspects that’s mostly for his own benefit. The crown of his head begins to tingle, and Kise’s mouth curls into a smile.  
  
“Right on schedule,” says Himuro. “Tell me if you can feel this.”  
  
He pokes at Kise’s skull. “Yes.”  
  
It’s only a few minutes more when the anesthetic is ready, and the touches to Kise’s head feel as if they’re happening but off in another world, no real pressure or sensation. He can see Himuro’s smile in the low light, the saw he brandishes.   
  
The sound of the saw changes when it hits the bone, grinding and sharp; Kise grits his teeth. He doesn’t feel it per se, just some kind of pressure, and he can smell it in the air under the blood. It takes longer; the bone’s harder and thicker and he can almost picture it (and wonders, briefly, why Himuro hadn’t put a camera over that much to show him; he’d pout but Himuro’s not looking at his face and the sound of the saw is too loud).   
  
He can’t see where Himuro puts the top of his head, can only hear the slight clank as it’s placed on the tray. His face is held in place by the machine; if only Himuro would turn him.  
  
Himuro lifts something that looks like a prod, bloodstained thumb of his rubber glove over the button near the end.   
  
“You haven’t turned on the monitor, Sensei,” says Kise.  
  
“I don’t need to,” says Himruo.  
  
And then electricity floods Kise’s brain.

* * *

2\. you see me at your feet

Himuro can’t stand now, but that’s been true for a while, Kise supposes. He’d cut off the leg last night before it could really get infected, give Himuro something that would kill him quicker. He’s going to die, mangled leg or no leg or whatever’s left of him at some point, but it’s not going to be a mercy kill, only a kill when all other options have been taken, when he’s been completely destroyed and the only thing left is the cerebellum, brain stem, heart, lungs, keeping him functioning but pointless to fuck around with.  
  
Himuro wheezes from the floor, breath coming in short gasps; his one eye (the other, useless, had been the first thing to go, gouged out with a poker, the only time Himuro had cried, not of sadness but of pain) looking up in distaste, lip curling around half-empty spaces where his mouth is only a quarter full of teeth, his gums a cob of corn left in a field for crows to peck away and leave the rest, cracked and yellowing. He will not submit, even though he knows his doom, and that’s the fun of the game, isn’t it?  
  
It was a little more fun when he could talk, before Kise had gone all the way and smashed his windpipe, crushing it under his fingertips like an aluminum can to fit better in the trash, before he’d split Himuro’s tongue in two like a snake’s. Now Himuro only hisses, moves his limbs limply because they’re totally irrelevant, the broken hand and wrist healed only halfway, grizzled and scarred, the one palm with no fingers, the remaining leg overused and twisted from it. Himuro lies in a mockery of prostration, and Kise grinds his elbow under his heel. He thinks about carving up his face a little more, running a scar down his cheek from the empty socket of his eye, slashing out his mouth like a movie villain. Or he could just punch again (Himuro’s voice, “you’re punching wrong, pretty boy” echoing in his head, the way he’d shown Kise how to make a fist and laughed, a grotesque sound, after Kise had broken his nose and jaw, blood pouring from his face) and carve pretty little blossoms of red and purple and green all over the pale, stretched flesh. There is so much to do, so little time.   
  
He could make that forked tongue and rough mouth suck his dick (Himuro’s has long since been sacrificed). He could take an ear, a little ribbon of flesh, crack the bone of his hip so that lying on his side becomes the same pain as standing had, make him crawl to his dinner and eat it off the floor like the disgusting creature he has always been, even with that beautiful veneer he’d once had, now cracked away like plaster to show the monster underneath.   
  
“Maybe I’ll just come in your eye,” says Kise.  
  
Himuro blinks, puffing his lips (those should come off next, maybe; even with the hideous mask around them they’re still a little bit too pretty).   
  
“Maybe you’re not worth anymore today.”  
  
Himuro’s face is blank. Kise kicks it, the steel of his boot cracking off the last of the frontward teeth, shattering the same nose cartilage all over again. Kise turns and leaves, and he can hear the sound as Himuro spits the pieces of tooth onto the floor. He’ll be back later.


	59. nijihai angst(?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12418793#cmt12418793)
> 
> 6/9

1\. flowers and empty promises

There is a vase on the kitchen table, a mason jar Shougo had taken from work two jobs ago on the coffee table, a cracked wine bottle on the bathroom windowsill. They’re stuffed with flowers, still relatively fresh, reminders of the things Shuuzou knows they won’t do.  
  
The daisies in the bathroom, white petals just starting to curl and fall, are from last Monday after Shougo had gotten fired again. He’d bought them on the way back, with money he’d known he couldn’t afford to waste on Shuuzou, dumped the bouquet in Shuuzou’s arms and downed a pint can of beer and gone to sleep. It hadn’t taken Shuuzou long to put together the pieces, a hundred-piece puzzle made for kids, if only because this has happened three times already since they’ve moved in together. Shougo always promises he’ll do better, he won’t hit on customers or fight his coworkers or skive off to play streetball and pretend that’s his tip money. And every time it happens again, a slight variation on a theme, the dullest kind of music.  
  
It’s not like Shuuzou’s not a hypocrite, but all the stress from Shougo being jobless is a convenient excuse to go down to the convenience store and buy another pack of cigarettes. He can’t quite mask the smell from his breath, or maybe he wants Shougo to find him guilty, even the playing field a little bit or make him pay (see, this is what you do to me). Shougo freezes him out, even though Shuuzou never does, and Shuuzou tosses the rest of the pack in the trash and picks up a few tulips at the store and puts them in the living room and that’s that.  
  
“I’ll be a better man,” Shougo had said, bruise blooming on his cheek from another fight in the park over basketball money. “I promise.”  
  
He’d picked the peonies from someone else’s garden; Shuuzou had watched him but hadn’t said a thing. It’s a self-demonstrating article of how little he understands, how little they both understand, how they give and take and never break the cycle, vicious and self-consuming like a long, long snake who’s just discovered it can eat its own tail, chewing slowly, its nerve endings already frayed by its own nature. Maybe they’re too far along for this thing to ever really die, burning ashes of something until forever; maybe one of them will snap and break it. Shuuzou’s not sure which would be better.

* * *

2\. clouded judgement

It’s always hard to escape first impressions, bad impressions, the shit that other people talk about him. Sometimes, Shougo hasn’t wanted to, content to let his reputation (bad boy, dirty player, damn good baller, ladies’ man, slacker) precede him. Sometimes he has, or has assumed that doesn’t apply, and he’d never thought it would with Shuuzou.  
  
Of course, he hadn’t accounted for Shuuzou just up and leaving the whole damn country after graduation, nowhere here to see him play in high school, nowhere to give him a piece of his mind or make up his own judgement. He’s only heard things from other people, mostly Akashi, and, well, Shougo’s not a fool. Akashi fucking hates him, thinks he’s a cancer to be cut loose; of course he’s not going to have something nice or neutral to say. And there’s somethings maybe he should be negative about, but it’s not like he’d ever bothered to get to know Shougo at all, just believed hard enough in the worst of him like every other damn person on that team (Shuuzou, maybe, for half a second, otherwise). And it’s not like Shougo’s that person anymore.  
  
Shuuzou looks at him from across the table, nothing but that goddamn criticism in his eyes, a veneer of caring but only wanting to change Shougo, only wanting to make up for something in his own damn mind.  
  
“I ain’t perfect, but I don’t act out anymore. I’m not that guy; I don’t fight for attention; I’m not some fucking project you can take on to feel better about yourself.”  
  
“Shougo,” says Shuuzou.  
  
Shougo waits, drumming his stubby fingertips against the edge of the table. He can wait a long time on this, some kind of internal justification for why Shuuzou thinks he wants this, what about changing Shougo into something he already is, away from something he already isn’t, is such a great and radical idea. And, okay, maybe Shougo’s judgement is just as clouded by the past; maybe it’s hard for him to trust Shuuzou now that he knows how close he is to Akashi and all those guys, because there’s no reason for him to choose Shougo when everyone else in the goddamn world chose those perfect little saints.  
  
“It’s not either-or,” says Shuuzou.   
  
He doesn’t elaborate right away, but Shougo sighs. He wants it to be what he wants to hear, but he’s too exhausted to let himself believe when he can’t be sure.

* * *

3\. in and out of love

Haizaki had thought, all the way back when they’d both been at Teikou, for half a second before dismissing it, that maybe he’d been just a little bit in love with Nijimura. Now that he’s a little bit older, it’s obvious he wasn’t—he’d been infatuated as hell, a dumb little shit who’d wanted attention and acted out for it, but love is kind of a strong word and Haizaki’s pretty sure that hadn’t qualified.  
  
That doesn’t stop his brother from teasing him about it all through high school, with a “what happened to that cute older boy you were so in love with?” and “why are you bringing home someone else? better than your tough-guy captain?” and that doesn’t stop Haizaki from trying to haul off and punch him and getting put in a headlock, wrestled to the floor, and ending up with a bruise on his back from getting shoved into a corner of the couch.   
  
It doesn’t mean he’s in love with Nijimura now, either. Haizaki’s quite mature enough to admit that his little infatuation had probably influenced his attraction to Nijimura right now, his open flirting and obvious pursuit. But Nijimura had said yes this time, hadn’t he? He’d gone on the first date and the second and the third and taken Haizaki back to his place and given him an excellent blow job (yes, that mouth is exactly as good as its unusual shape suggests, as Haizaki hadn’t really spent a lot of time fantasizing about in middle school) and after that they’d stopped needing to plan every date so much.  
  
Of course, it doesn’t stop Haizaki’s brother from saying shit.  
  
“Same guy? True love does exist, huh, Shougo?”  
  
“Shut up," says Haizaki. “Or I won’t make enough breakfast for you. Also, I don’t see anyone lining around the block to date you.”  
  
“I’m too good for anybody,” says Haizaki’s brother, and Haizaki debates the merits of hitting him with the spatula.  
  
Of course, his brother doesn’t really come to mind when they’re out on a date, playing ball in the park or getting coffee at this out-of-the-way bakery, Nijimura spooning extra sugar into his (Haizaki doesn’t give him too much shit about it, most of the time). All he’s thinking about is Nijimura, annoying and funny and caring and a little shorter than him now (which is pretty fucking weird). And, well, maybe he’s a little bit in love, so what of it?

* * *

4\. forgotten like a cup of cold tea

“All of those Teikou kids were strong,” somebody says, and Shuuzou’s heart clenches.  
  
It’s true, of course, an understatement. They had been monsters, surpassing him even when he’d been racing forward toward his peak physicality and they’d just been getting into puberty, dunking and passing and shooting and dribbling soon-to-be circles around Shuuzou. And Shuuzou had been strong, too; surpassing him had been no mean feat.  
  
Haizaki had, too, but somehow his name never comes up in conversations, even when he’d burned with the brightest fire, flames that would lick your hand if you weren’t careful, but flames nonetheless. He couldn’t steal from the others but he’d carved and slashed his niche; his name had been near the bottom but there.  
  
And now he’s like a cup of cold tea, forgotten on the windowsill, the bedside table, the side of the kitchen sink. It’s as if he’d never been there, as if Kise’s presence had erased him, the facsimile overtaken him, stolen him, even. Ironic, if it didn’t hurt so much, if it hadn’t hurt Haizaki so much. Shuuzou had been so wrapped up in himself that he hadn’t done much, thought much; his crush had slipped away because he’d been thinking of his parents on another hemisphere, the empty apartment he’d had to himself.  
  
He hadn’t been thinking much of how Haizaki had quit (been thrown off by Akashi, really), what he’d been doing, had just—not assumed, he hadn’t been stupid enough—hoped that things would work out. They hadn’t, of course; it’s stupid to blame Kise or Akashi or Haizaki himself fully, but still.  
  
It doesn’t matter who’s to blame, and maybe the others had left him behind the way they’d left Shuuzou behind, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing left for Haizaki, nothing he can’t take and craft into his own. Basketball is a five-man game, not a winner-take-all; if there is something left (and there is so much) for Shuuzou, there is more left for Haizaki, younger, among the top tier for so long.   
  
Tea can be reheated; crushes can be rekindled from the ashes and half-burned sticks; even if status cannot be reclaimed there is enough room to rise. Even if Shuuzou has to drag Haizaki there by the skin of his teeth, even if he has to fucking find him first, he’s going to do it. He’s not going to let Haizaki waste the strength at his fingertips any longer.

* * *

5\. I miss you; I hate you

Haizaki almost doesn’t go to his own graduation. There’s no one there who’s going to miss him if he’s gone, though, so it doesn’t really matter, and a couple of people might be upset if they have to see his face again so maybe it’s better to go. Maybe he can terrorize the first-years just for kicks again; there won’t be anyone to stop him; he can burn that shitty blazer in the incinerator just like those basketball shoes (they were too small for him, anyway, it’s not some great loss or waste of something he can’t afford).  
  
And he’d rather not be at home with all of the boxes packed like they are and his mom bitching about how considerate she’s been, waiting to move until he starts his new school in the new place, which, please. It would be more considerate of her to stay in one goddamn area for more than a few years of Haizaki’s life. Kids need stability; that’s what they say on TV, anyway (and he knows who to blame for being as fucked up as he is now, at least).   
  
He’d stopped caring entirely about Teikou after he’d been kicked off the team, anyway. Even Nijimura, as much as he’d pretended to care, had left him to the wolves, stopped coming after him the way they all do eventually. They still notice when he’s not around, maybe; maybe being glad is better than not noticing at all. Haizaki’s pretty sure Nijimura had stopped noticing, though, right around the time he’d stopped caring.   
  
Haizaki swings by his locker one last time; there are no notes from ditzy second-year girls (none of them had come after him for buttons and shit; they’d all been giggling around shitty Kise and his stupid sparkles and fakeass plastic smile). He bangs it open, slamming the metal door against the next one over, and rummages through.   
  
There’s mostly old homework, a pair of headphones (that’s where they’d gotten to), some loose change and a bottle opener. And, in the back, sticking to the bottom, a scrap of looseleaf. Maybe, Haizaki thinks, it’s an old letter, a crush confession or some shit. He turns it over, and his stomach turns.  
  
 _Hey, Kid, good work today. This is what happens when you show up for practice. -Nijimura._  
  
Haizaki crumples it in his palm, raising his fist to toss it at the trash—but, no, he can’t. How fucking stupid and sentimental is he? Nijimura hadn’t cared, not really, not for long enough. He sure as hell doesn’t care now, wherever he is (at least he hasn’t cared enough to come back and watch the so-called miracles play; he doesn’t care about them any more than he cares about Haizaki and it’s as close to victory as he’ll get). Haizaki stuffs the note into his pocket. He’ll throw it out when he gets home.

* * *

6\. miracles don't come for free

Miracles don’t come for free. The price of that team, in hindsight, was Shougo. It hadn’t been just his place as a starter, on the team at all; it had been more than that for him, thrown away and ground to dust for Kise, who would have been just fine without it. It’s hard to say who gets the most relative benefit from something, who deserves what; Shuuzou’s not the arbiter of justice and that’s for damn sure. But it feels wrong somehow, as if Shuuzou’s fingertips are stained with blood, that he had gotten something Shougo hadn’t.  
  
Basketball had found him a misfit, unhappy with his home and family, stealing snacks and beer and bikes and money off the street, making himself stick out like a black eye on the formalities and pride of Teikou Junior High, blond hair and a permanent scowl etched on his face. Basketball had found him, supported him, lifted him, let Shuuzou cling to it until he was no longer the written-off delinquent and instead someone kind of respectable, a term he no longer found quite so repugnant.   
  
Basketball had found Shougo, too; it had vaulted forward a difficult kid who couldn’t quite be a star among stars, given him a place he might have belonged, and snatched it all away from him. Maybe he hadn’t tried to hold on so much, but he’d been fourteen and fucking miserable, and even with all the chances he’d gotten, all the forward coaxing Shuuzou had done (Shougo was more of a feral cat that Shuuzou ever had been) it still hadn’t been as many as Shuuzou had gotten; they’d dissipated, and it’s not fair.  
  
(“Don’t expect life to be fair,” Tatsuya had told him, but he hadn’t said he didn’t want that, and it had been obvious he did—Shuuzou wants it, too, if not perfectly even then a little more level, a little less like Shougo’s still ten stories below.)  
  
“Don’t fuck me like you’re helping me,” says Shougo. “You don’t get to be absolved.”  
  
Shuuzou's not the arbiter of fairness, but Shougo’s not the arbiter of guilt, either, and even though that’s part of it—well.  
  
Shuuzou waits for Shougo to curl up in the afterglow, his features softening, his braids damp at the ends with sweat.   
  
“I’m as guilty as you,” Shuuzou whispers, threading his fingers through Shougo. “But I’m fucking you because I think you’re hot, and I’m sticking around because I like kicking your ass at video games. And you deserve it.”  
  
He presses a wet kiss to Shougo’s cheek; Shougo lazily smacks at him but lets Shuuzou keep spooning him. They’re good.


	60. garciraki (misc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12416745#cmt12416745)
> 
> 9/9

1\. fold your hands over your heart (she's got a grip on it)

 Alex’s heart is weak, her arteries clogged, her veins tangled. That’s what they say at the doctors, and Masako can barely feel the way it beats beneath her breast (sometimes she ends up groping instead, and maybe some of those times that’s the point, but still—it’s just a distraction from the faint thumping that barely overrides the pulse of her own hand).  
  
“Do you want me to fix it?” Masako says (never “fix you” because Alex is not broken; she’s like a motorbike badly-manufactured but normally maintained; she needs special care, replacement parts, someone who will dive into her engines and free things up).  
  
Alex always shakes her head, glasses glinting in the light.   
  
It must be hard for her, Masako thinks, the rise and fall of her chest, the faint pulse at her temple. It must be hard, and one day she will crumple and fall to it. She’s right; she only had to wait.  
  
Alex presses the knife into Masako’s hands, chest bare, goosebumps covering her flesh from the cold Akita night. “Fix it,” she says, directly, taking off her glasses and closing her eyes.  
  
A knife is not a screwdriver, a crowbar, a wooden sword; it’s still a tool. It’s not one Masako’s particularly accustomed to, but she’s adaptable (here, for this life, she’s had to be). The first incision is messy, the blood coming out in a jagged line between Alex’s breasts, pooling down her stomach.   
  
“Just do it,” Alex says, teeth clenched, falling back against the couch cushions, and so Masako wrenches the knife deep in Alex’s chest.  
  
She gasps, and maybe Masako’s hit a lung but the blood’s coming out fast and she needs the heart. She cuts, deep, in and around the tissue, feeling blindly like she’s in a dark room fiddling with the wires in an engine, until she just decides it’s better to plunge her hand in.  
  
Alex’s chest is sticky and warm; she has to wrench aside the bones to get to the heart and that’s tough; Alex has stopped moving and protesting now so it’s a little bit easier. She feels the tangled arteries and veins above it, threads her fingers through like it’s strands of hair, and then pushes and pulls.   
  
It’s done soon; her arm is covered in blood, drying into the brown rust of thirty years against Masako’s skin. Against Alex’s skin, splattered on the couch in butterfly wings. The tips of Alex’s fingertips are blue; so are her lips, bluer than her eyes would be if they were open. Her engine is fixed, but her battery’s gone.

* * *

2\. her butcher knife-smile

Masako’s a killer, smile like a butcher knife and face like a queen (Bloody Mary herself had nothing on Masako, Alex thinks). She swears like a sailor, keeps her underlings tight in line, loyal and devotional—a weakness for anyone else, for her a strength. She is lifted on their shoulders and she carries their weight from above, something Alex doesn’t quite understand, but—perhaps in time she will.  
  
Masako kills indiscriminately. She’d just as soon kill an abusive husband or a nun embezzling from the orphans in her care as she would an average salaryman, a college student, a jobber wandering in the park too late. It’s the thrill of the chase, the flash of the metal under the streetlight, the stench of a burning body, the hunter standing like Artemis over her deer carcasses, fair maidens behind her.  
  
But there is no pretense of purity; there are bloodstains on the leather, slash marks on her bike seats, bruises at the edges of her knuckles as permanent as the charcoal-smudges under her eyes.  
  
“I’m killing you, too,” she says to Alex.   
  
“Take me to bed first,” Alex says to her.  
  
She has no delusions of being some modern Scheherezade, keeping the story going, kicking the knife down the road with a bare foot. Masako’s too smart to fall for that kind of bullshit, anyway; she keeps up the pretense even though she’d probably never really wanted to kill Alex in the first place. She kills indiscriminately, but she spares with great care, half her underlings taken from a similar state to Alex. (Sometimes, she thinks about asking how many of them Masako had slept with, but she thinks that might actually end with a knife in her back.)  
  
It is a relationship of mutual something, perhaps not care or love, a mocking carcass of it at best, but a way of understanding. Alex sits in the house, on the porch, a cage not gilded or disguised, but with nowhere else to go. Masako comes back, blood on her hands, lets Alex bathe her and slip a hand between her thighs, touch her until her head lolls and her chest heaves and Alex’s hand is slimy with her come. Masako’s smile then is softer, like a knife gone untreated with a stone for too long, its cuts jagged and rough, sawing through flesh like a particular cut of meat. It’s the part of Masako only Alex gets to see, blade unhoned, far from the thrill of the fight, and she’s never going to stop coming back for more.

* * *

3\. the airs she holds on (rogue 1 au)

Masako will wake up sometimes to see Alex reaching out into the air, at nothing, as if holding onto something invisible. Everything is invisible to Alex by now, but still she’s better with her other senses than even she’s supposed to be, sharper. The Force, she had said, and once Masako had believed her. The Force is with her, so with her that it leaves her reaching for what’s not there, gripping the desert air in the hopes that they won’t hit the freezing point, maybe, that her motions will heat the air. Masako snorts into the pillow.  
  
“Laugh all you want,” Alex says.  
  
She nuzzles the back of Masako’s neck; Masako thinks about the Imperials outside, the clatter of trooper boots on the packed-down sand, on the adobe steps. Her gun’s a reach away, two seconds and she can start to fire off rounds, three and she can do it with the gun strapped to her chest.   
  
“You’re too tense,” says Alex, and that’s the physical, the tactile talking.   
  
“You’re a wiseass,” Masako says, but she accepts Alex’s arm around her waist, scooping her closer, as she always does.   
  
The expression _putting on airs_ comes to mind sometimes, but that’s not really what Alex does. She pretends; she makes believe, but it’s grounded in an unshakeable faith; it may be made up but it’s somehow real to her, an illusion Masako can no longer hold up. Maybe it's because Alex can’t see that she stays delusional, that she can only see Jedha city in her memories, no Imperial flags, even with the sounds of occupancy no troopers clad in white, stark against the desert brown, no destroyer above the temple. Masako envies her sometimes, the unwavering belief in the face of ten stormtroopers shooting at her (though her skills with the staff are rooted in practice, her skills with the bowcaster rooted in experience, real and tangible as the dust under their feet).   
  
But it is, sometimes, as if there’s a wall between them, invisible but causing just as much pain when Masako beats her fists against it and Alex stares through, unseeing, sorrow stricken on her face.  
  
But, belief in the supernatural aside, they will get through it. If they have to stand in front of Imperial fire, if they have to rally the city to take back the temple, for a day or two until the Empire sends reinforcements. Alone, they can be only a moral victory, only a symbol for whatever spread-out rebellion there is or isn’t. But, as long as they have each other (if they die hand-in-hand) they are together.

* * *

4\. bra hook

Masako doesn’t wear a bra unless she has to go out. It’s a once-or-twice-a-week luxury, letting her boobs stay free under her shirt, unpresentable but comfortable, no strap digging into her skin or wire poking at her, no plastic she has to dig out from fabric eventually to make the damn thing wearable (maybe it’s less support, but she’s a small enough size to get away with it, probably).   
  
She’d never really considered what Alex would think of it, maybe because Alex is comfortable lounging around in next-to-nothing, maybe a camisole to barely hold her chest in, questionable support at best even if she wasn’t all that large. Alex knows firsthand the most annoying parts about wearing a bra, though she doesn’t have fond memories of wearing a sarashi all through high school to fall back on. She certainly doesn’t expect Alex to move her hands up under her shirt, finally, bring them up Masako’s ribcage and then around to the back, and break the kiss with a sigh.  
  
“Why aren’t you wearing a bra?”  
  
Masako looks at her, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not wearing one, either.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess,” says Alex. “But—I don’t know.”  
  
“What?” says Masako.  
  
Alex scratches at her cheek. “I like unhooking it.”  
  
Well. Masako crosses her arms over her chest, trying to think back, fairly certain that Alex has never taken particular pleasure in the act of removing her bra itself. She’s paid ample attention to Masako’s breasts (Masako is quite certain she likes them), but not really that.  
  
“It’s dumb,” says Alex, moving in to kiss her again.  
  
“If it makes you happy,” says Masako. “It’ll just come off in a few seconds, anyway.”  
  
Alex shrugs, but she can’t stop the smile from spreading on her face, and if it’s as simple as that Masako will wear a bra every damn minute Alex is here (well, not to sleep) and let her take it off. Alex follows her into the bedroom, watches Masako take off her shirt, getting a pretty damn good look in (Masako lets her, and if she takes her sweet time looking through the drawer, it’s because the attention feels nice right now, the heat of Alex’s gaze on her back, even though it feels odd that she’s putting on more right now). She picks out a beige bra, pulls the straps over her shoulders and adjusts it around her boobs, pulling at the back of the strap to hook it into place.  
  
“Shirt?” she says.  
  
“Leave it,” says Alex.  
  
Masako turns, cocking an eyebrow. She’s not going to go forward right now; Alex has to come and get it if she wants it. And she does, hands on Masako’s waist, sliding up, mouth against Masako’s, tongue in Masako’s mouth, and then her fingers come around again, pulling gently at the hook. It pops out, and Alex skims her fingers over the line of where the elastic had been, forward, brushing the bottoms of Masako’s breasts, and Masako feels like she’s stepped a little bit closer to a campfire. Alex’s fingers brush over her nipples, and Masako gasps at the feeling, the way Alex tweaks them. Her bra is still loose on her shoulders; she lets it fall away.  
  
“All this for that?” she says into Alex’s mouth.  
  
“Yeah,” says Alex, kissing her back, harder, whole hands cupping Masako’s breasts. “Yeah.”

* * *

5\. a crush like this

On the other side of the computer screen, Masako smiles, halfway to laughter, and Alex’s heart burns with the heat of the beach at noon, sand farthest from the waves too hot to touch. She wants to be there, to see that in realtime, not some approximation with a framerate lost over peer-to-peer with the miles between them. It burns more, because it’s her own stupid words that have made Masako do this, smile and lean forward to adjust the angle on her laptop, and God.  
  
She’s lost track of the amount of times she’s woken up to a text from Masako, something as mundane as a picture of the piled-up snow in Akita or that she’d gotten around to seeing that movie and she’d liked it, or something that keeps the threads of last night’s conversation going, steady through her fingers, another stitch. Alex has given up on not texting back right away, on not sounding so damn overeager, because she’s pretty sure she’s already obvious and, well, Masako’s not saying no or waiting longer to text her either.   
  
Masako tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear, most of it tied into a ponytail away from her face. It looks good on her, something Alex isn’t quite brave enough to tell her yet even over a video call (maybe if Masako sent her more selfies, then she’d say it over text). Her heart is hammering against her chest; this is more than a little silly, acting like an anxious preteen with sweaty palms and only approximate conceptions of attraction, relationships, dating, wanting.   
  
She hasn’t had a crush like this in quite some time, had forgotten it could happen this way. Dating apps and clear intentions, hookups from across the bar, passing fancies, are all their own separate beasts. But this is different, every interaction cratering her chest and drying her mouth, everything thrown into the basket of hope like a Hail Mary from beyond the halfcourt line. Sometimes, those shots go in, and that’s enough for Alex’s crush-addled brain to seize on (though not enough to blurt out how much she likes Masako in the middle of a conversation, enough to leave it at the forefront of her mind, on her fingertips when their conversation hits another lull).   
  
“I should go,” Masako says, looking at her office door. “But it was nice talking to you.”  
  
“You, too,” says Alex, feeling her mouth curve into a smile matching Masako’s.  
  
She leaves the Skype window open even after Masako goes offline. She might not tell her next time, but soon, for sure.

* * *

6\. her lip gloss tastes sweet (high school au)

Alex wears peppermint lip gloss, shiny against her mouth in the winter sun, her lips always soft and full even in the winter, when Masako forgets to put on anything and hers get all chapped and cracked and gross.   
  
“Do you want some?” Alex asks as they’re standing in the bathroom area of the locker room, Masako adjusting her school uniform and Alex’s array of headbands and makeup scattered all around the dirty sink (how she’s not late for class after P.E. every single day Masako has no clue).   
  
She holds out the small tin; Masako can smell it from here (like when she stands too close to Alex accidentally-on-purpose, when Alex crowds her space to get a look at her homework, when Alex is about to shoot a free throw and Masako’s bumping her shoulder for luck). She smears a finger across the waxy surface, and Alex grins.  
  
“Finally got you. Eyeshadow next?”  
  
“Ha, ha,” says Masako (as if; she’s tried on makeup and it always makes her look like a clown or a demented panda, and it seems like all the other girls went to some class on a day she was sick and learned how to apply it perfectly, make their eyes pop and their cheeks look just the right amount of pinched, their skin tones all evened under a full face worth, and she wouldn’t notice if it didn’t make so many of them look so damn attractive, Alex least of all—though Masako’s seen her with a scrubbed face, just out of the school pool, about to go to bed at a team sleepover, everything taken off before practice when she says it might be better for her face to breathe).  
  
Her lip gloss tastes sweet on Masako’s mouth, like chewing gum. She puckers her lips in the mirror, making a kissy face, and Alex laughs.  
  
“Damn, you’re an Instagram model now.”  
  
“You know it,” says Masako, heat unfurling in her stomach even at something so clearly a joke as this.   
  
She slots a few bobby pins into her hair, away from her face (she needs a fucking haircut soon). Alex’s own hair is in its customary ponytail; she eyes them both critically in the mirror. Masako raises an eyebrow; it’s as if all of a sudden Alex has realized, as if Masako’s done something to make her big, fat crush obvious (though she’s had so many moments before then, but maybe this is just the last straw). Masako clears her throat.  
  
“Hey,” says Alex.  
  
Masako kisses her first; their lips taste the same.

* * *

7\. can we hold hands

They don’t hold hands in public very often. Maybe at night, maybe ever-so-casually, but not in the middle of broad daylight. They’re both not totally out; it’s not a wise thing to do in the areas of Akita Masako frequents; they don’t spend much of their non-basketball-related time together anywhere in public anyway, sharing each other exclusively for as long as they can stretch the pieces of time they get together because it’s never a sure thing when the next one’s going to come.   
  
The first time Masako visits Alex in LA, it rains the whole week, a supposed-desert mimicking Akita (poorly) for the short duration. They go to a few bars and restaurants, but street courts are out and walking around is mostly a non-preferred activity. It’s supposed to be safer here, but Masako doesn’t know whether that’s true or not, and that’s something she and Alex keep kicking down the road, their coward’s reasoning on both sides that the time they have together is little worth arguing over.  
  
Masako visits Alex again a year later in the spring. The weather is nicer, balmy and sunny, scattered clouds and the chance of a shower or two, but nothing like the buckets rained the last time. It feels a bit crisper than Masako’s used to for this temperature, maybe because the air’s so dry (it does nothing good to her skin). But there’s time for them to play one on one, have lunch, take a nap, and then go out later while it’s still pretty light, the sun not yet gone behind the distant buildings of downtown.   
  
They could argue about this now, or later; they could keep doing nothing; they could let their relationship stagnate. It is too precious to let it turn into a dead bog; Alex is too precious, Masako clasps her hand, folding her fingers between Alex’s. It’s half a beat before Alex does anything, but then she clasps Masako’s hand in return. Her grip is warm; when Masako looks over she’s smiling like her cheeks are about to start hurting.  
  
It’s not like they still don’t have to talk about it. It’s not like there’s still a lot of work they neglect, using the distance as an excuse. But this is something; this is real; this is one step forward in the right direction. And they have to go one step at a time.

* * *

8\. lipstick smears

Masako wears dark lipstick, bright against her mouth and pale winter skin, sometimes almost the shade of blood. She doesn’t do it often, but often enough when Alex is home (sometimes she applies it just as Alex walks in the door, smooth lines over the outlines and the fillings of her lips, top and then bottom, before she caps the lipstick and puts it back; Alex always watches, always a little bit transfixed). She always says she hates lipstick stains, smeared everywhere; she looks at a cigarette with a pink ridged ring around it in the gutter and frowns, moves away from a coffee napkin or a cup with a big smack mark on it.  
  
She sure as hell loves to leave her lipstick smeared all over Alex, though (not that Alex has any complaints). She’ll kiss Alex’s mouth, let Alex take some for her own, leaving gosted marks all over Masako's chin, on her collar (and Masako will stay up late to take it off and leave the fabric white and unblemished all over again, as if nothing had ever happened). She kisses Alex’s neck, her collarbone, just below the neckline of her shirt, her stomach, her legs (always easy access when Alex takes off her work pants, not specifically for this purpose but working just as well). There’s a ring of purple-red around Masako’s mouth, sloppy and swollen; she looks like she’s just been kissing a hell of a lot and she knows it and God, does this make Alex want to kiss her again, sit in her lap even though she barely fits and press their bodies together.  
  
“Easy,” Masako whispers in Alex’s ear, leaving a smear against her lobe, her temple, her forehead.   
  
Alex has never been great at following directions, but she tries, climbing off and settling herself on the other side of the couch, peering over her glasses at Masako’s face, dishevelled bangs, the lipstick marks in patterns on her skin. Maybe seeing Alex like this does something for Masako, but the opposite is true, too. Alex leans back on the heels of her hands and whistles, and Masako smiles.  
  
There is lipstick smeared on her teeth, probably from Alex’s mouth or maybe from biting her own lips; it’s dumb and cute as hell and Alex is done following orders for right now.  
  
“Take me to bed,” she says, leaning forward so her head’s in Masako’s lap.  
  
“Take yourself; you’re too damn heavy,” says Masako.

* * *

9\. tangled hair

Masako’s hair is longer, but Alex’s tangles more easily, uneven layers all caught up in each other, snarled into knots that only worsen with the humidity in Akita.  
  
“Maybe I should just chop it all off,” Alex says, staring straight out the window.  
  
Masako’s not sure if she’s serious; she’s not sure she’s ever seen a picture of Alex with short hair (shorter, yes, the atrocious hairstyle she’d had in her college and pro years, yes, and she ridicules Alex with no holds barred). And she doesn’t mind when Alex sweeps her hair up above her neck, the few strands that haven’t yet grown long enough hanging loose at her hairline.   
  
“Do you want to?” Masako says.  
  
“I don’t know,” Alex says, groaning and flopping back against the couch. “I just want my hair to be not tangled right now.”  
  
“There are less passive-aggressive ways of asking me to brush your hair, you know,” says Masako.   
  
Alex looks at her, suddenly wide-eyed. “You’d do that?”  
  
Masako holds out her hand, and Alex forks over the brush, wriggling closer to Masako and hanging her head over.  
  
Her hair’s not in too bad a state right now, one section snarled up through to the scalp but the rest look relatively tangle-free. She runs her hands through, gently pulling at the few little knots she finds, sticking the strands of hair that come out on the table.  
  
“Let me know if it hurts.”  
  
“You’re good so far,” says Alex.  
  
Masako runs the brush through the untangled sections; it goes smooth though Alex’s hair is frizzing out at the bottom the way it always does after she brushes it, a side effect that only goes away after dunking her head in the shower. It looks kind of cute all puffy around her shoulders like that, but Masako knows Alex doesn’t agree. She lets herself look for a while, the sun slanted through the living room blinds and catching Alex’s hair and turning it a darker, almost-orange color.   
  
“Masako?”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
She works on the big piece with her fingers first, pulling apart subsections guiding strands of hair into their approximate spaces, watching as a few split ends come undone and flutter to the floor (dramatic or not, Alex definitely needs a haircut soon). She works up from the bottom; it’s tedious (and sometimes Alex yelps; it’s always going to hurt a little bit and Masako’s no hairstylist) but steady; the tangle grows thinner, shorter, less of a clump, until finally Masako runs the brush through it, and finally it hits no snags on the whole way down.   
  
“Thanks,” Alex says, reaching up to push her hair down against her scalp, and then she turns to give Masako a kiss.  
  
“My fee’s two,” says Masako, and Alex grins into her lips.


	61. kagahimu, reincarnation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12485609#cmt12485609)
> 
> 6/9

1\. every time we reincarnate we're happy and all but we never get to live long lives

They’ve had so many times it’s hard to keep them all straight, but the first one is always clear as day in Tatsuya’s mind, always the first to come back. He remembers the beach, the tiny fishing village, playing on the shore with Taiga, the two of them so lonely. He remembers a touch of mouth-to-mouth, both of them thirteen and oh, so brave. He remembers the disease that sweeps through the village the next month that cripples him and kills Taiga, the way he sobs though he cannot speak, the pity in everyone’s eyes muted by the fact that Taiga is no longer there.  
  
-  
  
They have fought so many wars together, swords and armor and gunpowder and bayonets. They always meet before, except for once, Tatsuya the son of a Daimyo and Taiga a pawn on the battlefield. They whisper about him, that fickle son playing favorites again, only they remember all of the last times, they have something to fall back on. (Taiga asks, once, about the others; Tatsuya says he just wasn’t sure he believed they’d meet this time through.) But they’re not careful enough; Taiga’s status paints a target on his back. At least he gets to die holding Tatsuya’s hand this time.  
  
-  
  
The fire is an accident; Taiga tells him that several cycles later when he can finally look Tatsuya in the eye and apologize for it (he’s already forgiven; Tatsuya would rather not have had him be there and perish, too, not like this). By that point Tatsuya’s stopped having the nightmares of the flames around him, backed into a corner, encircled, no exit, trying to think about Taiga’s hands, Taiga’s face, Taiga’s kiss so much sweeter than the kiss of the fire charring his hands to the bone.  
  
-  
  
Tatsuya doesn’t have to wonder what it will be for too long this time. He thinks, by doing this to Taiga, before he remembers, perhaps the cycle will break; perhaps they’ll live apart and Taiga will be happy and Taiga will get forever and never remember. He does, though, a year and change after they get together; he wakes up crying and can’t stop for half an hour, and spends the next cuddling Tatsuya and pressing kisses all over his body, a few for every time they’d lost each other.   
  
It goes unspoken that it will happen again, that every goodbye could be the last, that Taiga could get killed in an accident on the freeway, that someone will hold up Tatsuya’s train and stab him and he’ll bleed out, that a lurking aneurysm will rear its ugly head.   
  
That doesn’t mean Tatsuya’s prepared when the police call; it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like the bullet’s through his own heart, just the same way it had every time before.

* * *

2\. I remember my last life but you don't and I'm unsure what to do about this I love you but you're taken...? I kinda wouldn't want to spoil that for u...

“I don’t remember,” Taiga says. “I know some people do.”  
  
Tatsuya nods; he doesn’t say he already knows that. He doesn’t talk about how they’d had this talk before, in the last life, under a redwood tree in the national park, and how Tatsuya hadn’t remembered his then, either. How regardless of their pasts, they’d wanted a future with the two of them, and they’d had one.   
  
“Do you?” says Taiga. “Like, a lover?”  
  
Tatsuya nods. “I had someone last time around, but…I don’t think it’s all too likely in this life.”  
  
“Why not?” says Taiga, as if he can’t imagine the way his own feelings work right now, purely fraternal, his mind fixated on someone else. “They’d be stupid not to want you.”  
  
A lump swells in Tatsuya’s throat; he swallows it back down. (He could say, “It’s you; don’t you remember what you’d promised, though I never would have asked? It’s you, and you’re head-over-heels in love with Kuroko Tetsuya.” He could, but that would only divide them, break them apart with a jagged fissure in between them. He loves Taiga, still, completely; it’s impossible not to. And Taiga is happy, and Tatsuya can’t take that away from him, no matter how much he wants all of Taiga for himself.)  
  
“It’s complicated,” Tatsuya says, half-smile on his lips.  
  
“I’m sorry,” says Taiga. “I don’t want to pry.”  
  
He reaches out to pat Tatsuya’s shoulder, and Tatsuya doesn’t lean into the touch, not the way he had so long ago, another him and another Taiga, still so much the same.  
  
This is not nothing, Tatsuya reminds himself. He’s part of Taiga’s life, if not central, if not quite so important. Taiga loves him, in a different way, a way that sometimes feels patronizing and cheap but only when Tatsuya’s feeling particularly bitter. He can’t not be when he sees Kuroko getting the same touches, the same kisses, that he used to have, the way they’d captured it on an early camcorder, both of them old but still smiling, the way they’d replay it and point things out to each other as their memories had begun to fail. Tatsuya’s not morbid enough to look for his own grave, to find out what had happened to those tapes (probably a dumpster somewhere, anyway). If showing them to Taiga would bring everything back, Tatsuya still wouldn’t do it. Taiga’s too happy; it’s too much to waste on a selfish chance, even if “maybe in the next life” feels like an empty promise.

* * *

3\. you died before I did but then I meet you again. as a little child. you don't remember me but you keep ending up at my house and I'm obviously not attracted to children but you're always welcome

It’s strange to think of Taiga so young when he’d been so much older the last time, when he’d been so old and frail at the end (when Tatsuya, in his late fifties, had felt his joints creaking but he could still walk on his own, still had most of his hair, still spoke in a voice thicker than tissue paper). He is ten, maybe; he's still learning English, not quite getting the shape of the vowels right, but chatty and bright in Japanese, clearly more comfortable with that.   
  
Tatsuya always makes him call home; the first time Taiga’s father had offered to come over and pick him up right that instant, but Tatsuya insists that Taiga’s no trouble. Even if they hadn’t been anything to each other in a past life, he’s wonderful, charming and amusing. Besides, it’s not like that relationship is even relevant to this situation (and, thankfully, Taiga doesn’t seem to remember it), what with Tatsuya being in his early twenties and all. It doesn’t even warrant a maybe someday at this stage, just a slight nod to how Tatsuya’s the one taking care of Taiga again, this time keeping him out of trouble and wiping the chocolate from his mouth (as if Tatsuya needs an excuse to bake brownies and cookies and cakes—sometimes Taiga comes over early and they cook them together, Tatsuya teaching Taiga how you know when it’s done, the right oven temperatures for baked goods, the English words for kitchen equipment and ingredients).   
  
“Do you play basketball?” Tatsuya asks, and Taiga shakes his head.  
  
Tatsuya’s selfishly glad that he’s the one introducing Taiga this time around, that he’s the one who teaches Taiga how to shoot at the hoop in his driveway (the one thing he’d splurged on with his first bonus, student loans and car payments be damned). Taiga tries, again and again, persistent and stubborn, and Tatsuya can’t stop smiling at the way he tries to drive past him, the way he tries to shoot over Tatsuya’s arms. He'll grow strong; he’s got time.   
  
He dozes off on the sofa with an east coast WNBA game on, the heat of summer and the buzz of cicadas finally getting to him. It’s still a little strange, Taiga being this young, almost like the nephew or much-younger brother Tatsuya had never had but wished for anyway. Taiga’s mouth is curved into a soft smile, the remote control tucked into his hand, and both of them are content.

* * *

4\. we have some unfinished business left to take care of but I need your help and I can't find you? are you even alive right now?

The plane drops down over the Pacific Ocean; it’s all over the news. Tatsuya doesn’t particularly care, only that LAX is even more of a snarl on the roads and now everyone’s either gawking or protesting or refusing to fly. That lasts about a day, before Alex calls him up, sounding as if she’s been crying.  
  
“Taiga was on that flight.”  
  
There are no remains to bury at the funeral; Tatsuya has no right to be there. He clutches the ring around his neck, heavy with the weight of scores left unsettled, permanently.  
  
-  
  
There’s nothing like becoming aware of a past life and all the baggage your fucked-up former self had carried with him to the grave. Tatsuya curses the other him, more than a few times out loud, but, well. Would he have done any differently? If his other half had thrown the game away, conceded like the game hadn’t meant a goddamn thing, in this life, he’d have punched him a little harder, maybe.  
  
But that might be because he doesn’t have an other half, no one to receive his passes, complete his plays, walk beside him. He has unfinished business, but no other party to tidy up the loose ends with.  
  
Taiga could have been reincarnated right away, Tatsuya supposes, and part of him hopes Taiga never remembers how it must have felt to die, falling deep below the ocean in a primitive metal machine. But part of him selfishly wants, needs, Taiga to remember, wherever he is, even if he’s fifty—Tatsuya’s on the wrong side of his peak, too, just the other one; maybe it would be an even match.  
  
Maybe this Taiga hates basketball, or never knew it. (Maybe someone else had shown him, someone kinder, more considerate, who would never hit him and throw their bond away, desecrate it for a stupid grudge Tatsuya still feels like holding a lifetime later.)  
  
Some people never remember. If Tatsuya had had a plast cycle before the last one, he doesn’t know about it now, didn’t know then. Maybe Taiga’s last one was so traumatic he’s suppressed it, even if he was supposed to know. Maybe he still hasn’t been reborn. Maybe he's dead again already, twice over, even (maybe they don’t even speak the same language this time). Maybe Tatsuya will carry this from life to life, cycle to cycle, until the world implodes, the invisible ring weighing down his neck always.

* * *

5\. for some reason I started crying as soon as I saw you for the first time and you look like you know why

It’s an ordinary day, but those are often deceptive, Taiga supposes. It had been an ordinary day when he’d met Alex, remembered her (but she’d already known), when he’d remembered so suddenly all the guys back at Seirin, in Chicago, but there was always a tiny piece missing, a black-hole void in his memory, someone or something left to reveal itself. Or maybe it’s just forgetfulness, his current self thinking that there ought to be something when there had been nothing at all for his past self to register in the first place.  
  
It’s an ordinary day, and Taiga feels the anticipation building in his stomach, a pebble rapidly becoming an avalanche, like on those nights before something big he knows is coming and he can’t sleep, fists clenched, attempting to breathe slow and steady. His head turns, as if magnetized, and then he sees the man, tall and toned, hair hanging over his strikingly gorgeous face. He’s staring at Taiga as if he’s seen a ghost. Taiga doesn’t realize he’s staring back until he feels his eyes leaking tears over his cheeks; he can’t look away from the man’s face and he looks, somehow, guilty. Taiga’s stomach says this is it; this is the one. Taiga crosses the distance between himself and this stranger, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.  
  
“Do you have a tissue?”  
  
It’s not his smoothest icebreaker but it gets the man to almost smile, still looking stricken; he reaches into his pocket for a small plastic packet. Taiga blows his nose loudly; the man offers him another tissue.  
  
“Thanks,” says Taiga. Then, “You know me.”  
  
The man sighs. “I knew you.”  
  
That’s not good. The look on his face isn’t good; Taiga’s tears aren’t good—or maybe they’re joy? He doesn’t feel anything at all, only confusion and the leftover anticipatory buzz.   
  
“Once,” says the man. “I’m Tatsuya.”  
  
“Taiga,” Taiga says, sticking out his hand (he only realizes it’s covered in snot when Tatsuya shakes it, but he seems unfazed, wiping it off on his jeans).   
  
“I’m sorry, Taiga," says Tatsuya. “I. Is there anything you remember?”  
  
Taiga shakes his head.  
  
“Then maybe it’s for the best,” says Tatsuya.   
  
He doesn’t apologize again; he doesn’t ask for forgiveness; he just turns, abrupt, and walks off into the crowd. Taiga calls his name; he does not turn back and soon he’s gone, the way of the wind, just a black hole in Taiga’s memories once more.

* * *

6\. (insert actual happy reincarnation AU)

They have measured seven lifetimes’ worth of summers out here by the lake. Every time, they come back; every time the memories come back, gradually like water filling up a pond, crevassing the earth until it seems as if it was always there, as if it always should be. They always find the tree together; they’ve never been without the other; they always carve another tally on a new row, indented from the last, below the old one on the same bark. One for each lifetime, one for each set of the two of them.  
  
They were fishermen once, generating their livelihoods from what lurked at the bottom of the lake, flaying and eating the fish for themselves, selling and trading them to the other locals as you did back in those days. The fish are different, now, introduced and invasive from foreign shores, sometimes interbred with the local populations until those had died out, perhaps the descendants of those Taiga and Tatsuya had enjoyed over the campfire hundreds of years ago.   
  
There used to be a lake house that they rented every summer, a dock and a canoe, Taiga sitting with his legs hanging over the edge, hair slicked back with fresh water, always a smile and a kiss for Tatsuya, always ready to lead him back into the kitchen that was not theirs but they still called home, sit him on the kitchen counter and kiss him until they could barely breathe, laughing against each other, fitting together like a lock and key.  
  
They camped out here as children in one lifetime, one that wasn’t particularly long but still filled with love, happiness, adoration, the two of them and their own little world out here, where everything always seems to fall away.  
  
They’re retired, now; they’d still come here every year when they were big NBA stars, a quiet retreat where people knew them but kept their respectful distance, let them have loud sex in the upstairs bedroom of the house they’d commissioned on the same property that had once held their rental, not a reproduction but with the same dark granite kitchen counters. It’s harder for them to walk, years of jumping taking its toll on their knees, but they still sit at the edge of the water, hand in hand, pressed together like a pair of gloves in a coat pocket, left and right. And every summer they carve another tally on the tree; they’ve lost count of the total now but there is always more to come.


	62. aohimu gore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12486377#cmt12486377)
> 
> 3/9 (+3/9 in a later chap)

1\. we got high and drunk and now you're dead and idk why I don't remember but I'm missing a couple fingers

Daiki wakes up to the smell of salt and sand and dead fish, rancid in his nose and mouth and, like, everywhere. He groans; God, is he hungover. That’s the last time he’s letting Tatsuya talk him into splitting a bottle of Everclear while they’re already stoned (even if Tatsuya had taken most of it, as always) and then driving to the beach, and are they still stoned? Is Tatsuya even here? Daiki cracks an eye; at least it’s cloudy out and he’s not immediately assaulted with the egg yolk of the sun, just an expanse of still-too-bright grey.   
  
Tatsuya’s lying next to him, dried blood on his face. Shit, they’d done worse than last time. Daiki leans closer, and the dead fish smell gets a little bit stronger. Ew. Daiki pulls away, trying to dig into his pocket for his phone, to see what time it is. His right hand feels strangely empty, and Daiki pulls it out and just point-blank stares, trying to wiggle his fingers. The problem is, his first three are gone, thumb and index completely, middle one chopped off at the first knuckle. They’re stained in blood; the bone is sticking out of the middle one and that's a hell of a bird to flip at people and Daiki starts to laugh.   
  
His voice is hoarse; he’s thirsty as fuck; he coughs more than he laughs; every passing second he expects Tatsuya to wake up and grumble at him the way he always does, surly-pretty kind of hangover. Tatsuya doesn’t wake, though, and an intrusive thought bursts its way through Daiki’s mind. Like the Kool-Aid man, he thinks, and he’s apparently still high enough to find that funny as fuck, until he remembers the thought itself.  
  
“You alive, Tatsuya? Dude?”  
  
He shakes Tatsuya with his still-intact left hand; his skin is cold. Like the dead are supposed to be. His body is stiff; there’s some kind of fancy Latin term for it, like the rats caught in a trap before he could set them free back at home. Fuck.   
  
“Tatsuya.”  
  
He pushes Tatsuya to his side, grabs at his wrist. There’s no thumping pulse; Daiki can’t remember last night much, but he can remember grabbing Tatsuya’s pulse and telling him it was like strobe lights, with his right hand, too, the alcohol making him silly, kissing Tatsuya across the console in the car.  
  
Where the fuck is the car, anyway? Tatsuya’s dead, and the keys are in his pocket. Daiki digs into Tatsuya’s jeans (dead bodies can get boners, right?) and pulls them out, shoving them into his own. He can’t do much left-handed; that much is starting to sink in but it’s not like he’s got a choice.   
  
The wash of the ocean roars louder in his ears; he looks at Tatsuya, the bloodstains all over his head, the beautiful frozen face. He puts his right hand on Tatsuya’s heart; there is no sound. There’s nothing he can do about it, about any of this (and God, is he thirsty), but the right thing to do might be to send Tatsuya out to sea (he remembers, once, long ago, talking about Tatsuya’s seahorse apron, Tatsuya saying “I’m seahorse, I’m the dragon bastard, right?” and Daiki had laughed then). He laughs now, lifting Tatsuya into his arms, heavy; it’s hard to get a grip with seven and a half fingers but he can still carry the deadweight.   
  
He stumbles; maybe he should have kicked off his sneakers; the water will flood them; Daiki doesn’t care. He reaches the water’s edge, stumbles in; it’s cold and he howls into the air. Tatsuya does not stir in his arms; the smell this close has wrapped back around from unbearable to usual. Daiki sets Tatsuya down in the water; he sinks the few inches to the sand. Daiki waits, the cold water lapping at his ankles, sticking his hands in (a bad idea, the blood on his right’s not that dried). He’s still stumbling in pain when the waves wash Tatsuya under, away, and he is all that’s left.

* * *

2\. down for cannibalism; 21; male: looking for hot men up for anything

“Hi,” says the voice on the phone, unknown number. “I’m calling about your Craigslist ad.”  
  
“Oh?” says Aomine (please, let it be that one and let him be hot).  
  
“Down for cannibalism? 21, male?”  
  
“Are you a hot man up for anything?” says Aomine.  
  
“Yes,” says the voice. “Let me know when you’re free.”  
  
“Anytime," says Aomine (he’s trying not to sound so eager but he’s so goddamn hungry).  
  
-  
  
Himuro is, indeed, a hot man. He’s got a pretty face, cheeks that look like they’d taste good charbroiled, beautiful hands, a sweet ass. Aomine can’t wait to fuck him, can’t wait to eat the meat off those thighs, spit-roasted. He sinks to his knees right away, and Himuro unzips his fly. His hand is tight against Aomine’s head, pulling on his hair, and Aomine’s not really into that, but, hey. If this is one of the last times Himuro comes, Aomine will let him enjoy it how he wants.   
  
Himuro blows him, too, pretty mouth and teeth a little too sharp, but he still makes Aomine come quickly with a shout. Perhaps, if they'd met earlier, they could have had more of this, but Aomine doesn’t make him want to wait.  
  
“Are you ready for the main course?” he asks.  
  
Himuro nods, and then he walks over toward the coat rack, rummaging in his pocket for something. He pulls out a butcher knife, sharp and gleaming in the light. Aomine reaches for it.  
  
“Excuse me?” says Himuro.  
  
“What?” says Aomine, and then, “Oh, hell no.”  
  
“You didn’t specify you wanted to eat me, but I thought I made my desire quite clear,” says Himuro. “You responded so well, too.”  
  
“Wait, you were like—that was you about to bite my dick off?”  
  
“Not while you’re alive,” says Himuro, as if Aomine’s an idiot and this is some common fucking knowledge.   
  
“Hell, no,” says Aomine, again. “I want to stay alive.”  
  
Himuro sighs. “It’s no fun when you don’t want it.”  
  
“Then don’t fucking kill me.”  
  
“I came all this way,” says Himuro. “I can’t stop halfway.”  
  
He brandishes the knife; Aomine backs away. His own are in the kitchen; he’s fast; he can run—Himuro’s faster, pinning him against the wall, knife to his throat, stabbing at Aomine’s skin more the harder he breathes.  
  
“Don’t—fucking don’t’—” Can he call the cops? How is he going to explain this?  
  
“I won’t draw it out,” says Himuro, smiling, beautiful, deadly.

* * *

3\. I just killed a guy for being too pretty wow uh what do I do now

Himuro is so damn pretty. He’s pretty enough to eat, like the marzipan shepherdesses Aomine’s mother used to buy, saved for special occasions. She’d always looked sad when he’d bitten the heads off, but just because they were pretty didn’t mean they weren’t sweet, that the heads weren’t the best part of a lot of universally delicious parts. Aomine had stopped eating them that way in front of her, though.  
  
Himuro is pretty enough to eat, pretty enough to snap his neck, and so Aomine does, without thinking much about it. After all, they’d had a lovely date; Himuro was a damn good lay even though he’s beautiful enough to get away with being objectively horrible or not trying, but he’s just lying there, on the pillow, throat bare, and Aomine reaches out and wrings it. His eye snaps open before Aomine’s done, wide and confused and then unseeing.   
  
Oh, shit. Aomine’s pretty sure that's against the law, and a pretty boy like Himuro’s going to have people looking for his body when it disappears.  
  
He’s pretty enough to eat, so Aomine guesses that’s his answer, a savory version of the marzipan shepherdess writ large. He takes the head off first because that’s tradition, puts it in the back of the freezer. the bones go into the soup pot to make broth; he slices the meat off until the kitchen table’s covered in Himuro’s blood, red and sticky. He eats some of it raw; it’s rich and full and not sweet but going down his throat the right way, even with the rusty blood on his lips.   
  
He cuts it off and broils it, cookie sheet by cookie sheet, going from body to oven to bowl to fridge in cycles. He might not have room for all of it now, but he’ll rearrange if he needs to. He fries the fingers in batter, puts both legs below the knee in the freezer whole (they’ll be dealt with later). What's left is still, in its own way, a beautiful picture, stripped ribcage and bloody organs, sawed-away neck with skin still clinging to it (and what is he going to do about the skin? There’s no way to hide it, but Aomine’s pretty sure he won’t be able to eat it or cook it), mutilated thighs, perfect spine, beautiful ass that even when he as to Aomine hesitates to carve into just yet.  
  
But there’s no reward for doing things halfway, only stale marzipan to be thrown in the trash.


	63. midokise, fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12485097#cmt12485097)
> 
> 9/9

1\. unspoken

Some days when Kise gets home, Midorima’s playing the piano. It happens more and more often as they’re thrown forward into spring, Kise working later hours and Midorima coming home earlier, more easily distracted (though he pretends he isn’t). Kise can already picture the taped fingers of his left hand stretching to play an eleventh, a twelfth, one of those Rachmaninoff thirteenths that Midorima is always complaining about even though he loves to play them (that one book is much more well-worn than the Beethoven or the Debussy or the Fibich, despite Midorima’s fondness for those pieces, too).   
  
Today, he’s playing a piece Kise half-recognizes, probably from the radio. He’s never heard Midorima play it before; he’s reaching into the high registers for this one, the rhythm tugging on Kise, not like the dances he plays (the book of Brahms waltzes for four hands that he’d tried to teach Kise and approximated himself when he’d lost patience; Kise can copy but he can’t catch up to Midorima’s musical sensibilities, adjust his tempo and push Midorima forward when he slows down). The notes roll over Kise in a wave, like the calm surf in the early morning on a vacation, the two of them the only ones out on the beach.   
  
Kise doesn’t call out that he’s home; he’s not going to break the intensity of the piece, or Midorima’s concentration. He drops his bag in the foyer and walks into the living room, rolling up his sleeves. Midorima’s fingers glide over the keys, curled over the middle of the white and the end of the black, his foot pressing on one of the pedals. He lets his hands rest, then moves them again. The top of the piano is open, the way Kise likes it (the way he knows Midorima does, too, even though he complains about moving everything they keep on it over to the tables and putting it back afterward).   
  
He finishes, slow, and then releases the pedal after the sound’s faded away. Kise sits down next to him on the bench, presses a silent kiss to his cheek. Midorima turns toward him. Kise doesn’t have to say to get his point across; he wants to hear the whole thing over again. Midorima smiles, slight and soft, with a little pride and a little happiness, that they can share this together. He turns the page back and resets his hands.

* * *

2\. warmth

“It’s cold,” says Kise, puffing out his cheeks.   
  
Midorima would say that it hardly is; he’s fine with his sleeves rolled up but Kise’s hugging his knees to his chest on the couch, and, well. He’s got sweaters here; Midorima’s not going to turn up the thermostat and make himself uncomfortable. Kise’s eyes dart to Midorima’s sweater, folded over the arm of the couch.  
  
“Can I wear it?”  
  
“You have your own,” says Midorima.  
  
Kise puffs his cheeks again, pouting like a fish. He knows how cute he is; he knows how his persistence wears Midorima down, and perhaps now is a good time for Midorima to pick his battles (i.e., not this one).   
  
“Fine,” says Midorima, passing the sweater over.  
  
It’s big on Kise, baggy around the shoulders and long on the arms, but it looks good on him, cute with the cuffs pulled over his slim hands and the stripes folded over where there’s room in the fabric. Kise looks good in anything (and then there’s the thought that this is something of Midorima’s, as cliche as it is, tugging on the possession that is so unattractive, rearing inside of him and shouting that this is a symbol of whatever power he holds over Kise). Kise knows, of course, grinning at Midorima and nudging his side.  
  
“I look good, right, Midorimacchi?”  
  
“You always do,” Midorima grumbles, his cheeks flaring.   
  
Kise laughs, a sparkle of teeth and a pretty sound; it makes Midorima want to kiss him. They’re dating now; it’s allowed. So Midorima does it, slow and soft until he pulls away and Kise’s face is flushed with heat (how’s that for keeping warm?) and not with makeup. It's hard not to be a little proud of that.   
  
“Make me some tea,” Kise says.  
  
“You’re warm now,” says Midorima. “Put on a coat if you’re not.”  
  
“Please, Midorimacchi?”  
  
Kise is an annoying little whiner sometimes; he only does it because it works, too (the worst kind of reinforcement Midorima cannot nip in the bud even though he almost always tries). He sighs, getting up from the couch; Kise pats his thigh (Midorima’s not sure if it’s meant to be condescending or not). But with the way Kise is looking at him from the couch as he goes into the kitchen to fill the kettle, maybe it’s okay to spoil him sometimes. Only if it’s every once in a while, though.

* * *

3\. familiarity

The Kise on those billboards, on ads in the subway, glossy pages in the magazines at Midorima’s dentist’s office—that's not the Kise Midorima knows. He has known this Kise exists for longer, known of him, but he’s as unfamiliar and intractable as some kind of ancient rune taken out of context. His face is airbrushed, made up a different way than Kise does himself in the mornings, blown up wide with his pores turned invisible, his smile quick as the blades of fan on high and plastered to his face, always, in a beautiful face mask.   
  
He is one dimensional, sunny and bright, a brilliant ballplayer, a beautiful specimen, things that he undoubtedly is in real life but caricatured, taken out of proportion as if they’re all that’s there to him, like he’s so shallow you can see the sand at his bottom seventy meters out beyond the shoreline.  
  
That’s all a brilliant illusion Midorima does not care to know much better, because it’s not the real Kise, the Kise he has, the Kise he lives with. That Kise is as familiar as his own skin, a shot from beyond the arc, a piano piece he’d memorized when he was seven, the route from his house to Teikou on foot. This is the middle school classmate who had burned all the cookies in home economics class and fought his way onto the first string of the basketball team, the one who sings loudly while he puts on his makeup in the morning and Midorima has to fight for space at the sink to shave and comb his hair. There are parts of him that are deep, parts of him he never shows, even to Midorima; there are parts of him that come out in public but people are too distracted to notice. Kise can be mean sometimes, biting and cruel, more than Midorima ever can; he can be shockingly honest and insightful, and there’s so much he picks up on, so much that comes with the territory of being able to mimic. He notices gestures, tics, hesitancies, the hidden things, like he’s got some kind of magic sight.   
  
That all gets flattened out of his image, a canvas stretched out over the side of a building, a video playing on a twenty-foot television. Sometimes Midorima has to look away; it’s all wrong; it’s not his Kise. And reminding himself of that makes it easier to look away.

* * *

4\. smiles

The first time Midorima had smiled at Kise had been back at Teikou, before everything had gone to shit, before Kise was even a regular on the first string. He’d been watching Midorima at practice, trying to copy that long shot from across the court, his own bouncing off the backboard or sailing over, underselling and bouncing to roll out of bounds, hitting nowhere near the net.  
  
“You’re not strong enough yet,” Midorima had said, looking at Kise’s arms.  
  
Kise had happened to have very nice arms, thank you very much; he’d been a model after all, and they’d gotten a little more defined after he’d started taking basketball sort of seriously.   
  
“Work out, then try,” Midorima had said, as if dismissing Kise.  
  
He hadn’t smiled, then, but he had after Kise had spent more time training, going a little harder on his arms and watching them firm up, define, turn into something better, and Kise had taken a shot from half-court. It hadn’t been Midorima’s shot, per se, but it had counted for three, and Midorima had shot Kise a small smile that Kise had thought was reserved for Akashi and maybe Murasakibara. And that had been a victory (who gave a damn about the game) and had given rise to the uncomfortable notion that maybe Kise had had a crush on Midorima.  
  
Of course, it’s way more comfortable now that Midorima has to stop himself from smiling at Kise sometimes and still can’t, the way his serious face crumbles away into something kinder, gentler. Kise has always been an easy smiler, but he saves the real ones, the ones he feels deep inside of him, resonating, for Midorima.   
  
Midorima notices; he’s bad at reading people but he knows Kise better than his favorite book, well-worn and dog-eared; he’s flipped through Kise’s pages time and time again, read the sections out of order, faced him on court, ordered him dinner and known exactly what he’d wanted (the reverse is true, too, but Midorima’s so habitual and predictable that it doesn’t count on this end), kissed him the right way after Kise had told him not to hesitate so much.   
  
Any of that on its own would be deserving of a real smile, but all of it combined comes full-circle, all the smiles Kise doesn’t want to give dragged out of him (and so maybe, in this way, he and Midorima are alike, smiling even when they wouldn’t, maybe shouldn’t, from different spins but the same result, like those half-court shot, Midorima’s rising arc and Kise’s gentle glide).

* * *

5\. trust

“It’s Game Seven of the Finals. A few seconds left; you have the lead and the possession. Who do you trust with the ball?”  
  
What kind of question is this? Midorima tries to be patient with the American reporters, but it fails half of the time because their questions don’t make sense.   
  
“Any player in the NBA right now,” says the reporter.  
  
That’s stupid, illogical; most of the players in the NBA right now will never come to Boston, and Midorima’s not leaving; even if he makes the finals every year that situation won’t come to pass with more than a few players (if that) as his choices. Midorima tries not to sigh.  
  
“Yourself?”   
  
(That’s the wrong answer, even if it’s true, and—well. He’ll never play for the Celtics; he’ll never leave the west coast and all of its shining glory, but.) “Kise.”  
  
“Kise? From Golden State?”  
  
Midorima nods.   
  
-  
  
“Wow, Midorimacchi, I'm flattered!” says Kise.  
  
His voice is bright over the phone; he pretends to wake up like that but Midorima knows firsthand what Kise’s routine is like, all the caffeine practically pumped into his veins (though if he said anything about that, Kise would probably try the literal meaning) and all the makeup caked on, rubbed off, and reapplied.   
  
“Flattered about what?” says Midorima.  
  
“You said you’d trust me in Game Seven!”  
  
“Well,” says Midorima. “The question doesn’t really matter; it’s not like such a hypothetical situation could happen, where I had any NBA player at my disposal—”  
  
“Stop equivocating, Midorimacchi; that’s not cute,” says Kise.  
  
“I’m not equivocating,” says Midorima.  
  
“Yes you are,” says Kise, in a terribly uncute singsong voice of his own.  
  
“I’m not. But, provided you were on my team, not playing against me, then—well.”  
  
Midorima coughs. Shit.   
  
“You’re my boyfriend,” says Kise. “I expect you to trust me, you know.”  
  
“I didn’t answer you because of that,” Midorima snaps. “You’re a good basketball player.”  
  
“I’m better than good,” says Kise, “But thank you.”  
  
Somehow, it always feels like Midorima loses these arguments.  
  
-  
  
“It’s Game Seven of the Finals. A few seconds left; you have the lead and the possession. Who do you trust with the ball?”  
  
“Myself!" Kise chirps.  
  
The reporters eat it up, stupid and annoying as they are, because somehow Kise can always get away with that stuff. Midorima texts him a succinct _GO DIE_ before turning off the TV.  
  
 _My real answer’s you, you know,_ Kise texts him back. _But it’s a secret._  
  
Midorima buries his face in his hands. He doesn’t have time for this.

* * *

6\. compatible

The thing about compatibility is that it’s not necessarily a predictable thing. Sometimes people are just alike to slot into the same spaces where there’s room enough for two; sometimes people are different enough to slot into each other and hold on. Sometimes it’s somewhere between the two; sometimes the same criteria apply and people repel like two north poles of a magnet forced toward each other.   
  
Midorima used to think he and Kise were too opposite, Kise’s quest for fame and ability to talk about anything (including subjects he knew nothing about) for hours too far from Midorima’s pursuit of sheer excellence and his distaste for small talk, but those are closer to superficial than anything else, almost like saying that since Kise’s eyes are yellow and Midorima’s are green then there’s no way they’re going to work out.   
  
It’s actually a benefit that Kise loves to talk so much; when Midorima’s inevitably forced into a social gathering, Kise talks enough for both of them but lets Midorima get a word in edgewise to correct him or say the few pieces he has. Midorima’s quest of progress and goals for their own sake, not for some incidental side benefit, has influenced Kise; Kise will admit that himself. And, well, there's basketball, not something Midorima would admit to loving when they had met but that he had been devoting more and more of his time to, peeling away layers formerly reserved for other activities, shogi and piano and science (not that he’d neglected them then, or that he does now, but basketball had begun to dominate). And Kise hadn’t yet fallen in love with basketball, still in the first few stages of infatuation.  
  
It’s the tie that binds them together, through history, through their present, through the futures they see for themselves, Midorima’s erased and re-outlined, precise; Kise’s a hastily-drawn sketch that’s not quite as clear and detailed but with basketball still at the forefront, at the middle. It’s as if the two of them are dancing, balancing this albatross of a sport between them, huge and unwieldy, demanding so much of them, and to hold it up they must hold up each other. It’s not weak to rely on someone else, especially not if you let them rely on you, too, especially not if admitting that is part of what makes you compatible. At least, that’s Midorima's opinion.

* * *

7\. unconditional

Midorima’s love is not conditional. His approval of Kise had been, at first, hinging on all of these little details that Kise hadn’t even bothered to consider, things that don’t matter to him at all, largely on the fact that Kise got results (or when he didn’t, like in school; things like that just aren’t important to him the way they are to Midorima). They used to butt heads about it constantly, Kise dismissing, his voice bordering on a whine as Midorima nagged him for the millionth fucking time about something or other.   
  
It hadn't been an epiphany, really, a strong realization dawning on Kise like a prophecy. It had been gradual, the hints that maybe this was important, talking things over with his oldest sister and her patting him on the head (because of course Midorima was being unreasonable) patronizingly but like Kise just didn’t quite get it. And he hadn’t, until he had, until it had fallen into place and his eyes had adjusted to the way things were supposed to look. Relationships are all about compromise, one person with another, priorities clashing in one shared backlog. Some things had been important to Kise but not to Midorima; more things (at least seemingly so) had been important to Midorima but not to Kise. Kise’s not going to start making a sweep of top marks across the board, but he can try a little harder and acknowledge the importance Midorima sets store by that.  
  
And Midorima had only nagged him because he’d cared, a stupid adage that holds true. Because while Midorima had withheld his approval, not in order to get Kise to jump for it like a dog for a treat just beyond his reach, but because for better or for worse Midorima refuses to move his goalposts, standing stubbornly at a mark he’d set long ago. And just because he had refused to compromised didn’t mean he didn’t care for Kise, unconditionally, even when Kise had gotten shit grades or one of the myriad of other things that matter to Midorima (like folding his socks).   
  
And Midorima loves Kise fiercely, even now when he clicks his tongue in disapproval, when he tells Kise he’s being silly, when they have a drawn-out argument that lasts a few days with the two of them on opposite coasts; Midorima’s even the one who swallows his pride first sometimes and calls to apologize, something Kise knows is rare, more valuable than all fo the tiny things they find themselves on different levels about.

* * *

8\. embraces

Kise feels as if he’s going to burst with happiness, like he’s an overripe fruit stuffed with nectar about to tear at the seams of his skin and flood the gym as the buzzer sounds. They’ve done it; they’ve won the Olympic gold--better than FIBA worlds and the NBA championship and the Winter Cup all rolled into one, a thousand times more ecstatic because it’s in Tokyo of all places. They’ve won the fucking Olypmics (“We’ve won the fucking Olympics!” is a thing that multiple teammates are shouting, and Kise is pretty sure he can make out Aomine’s and Hayama’s voices in there, but he doesn’t care enough to pick it out further). There’s only one person Kise needs to vault toward right now, but he’s already right behind Kise; Midorima’s right there and they envelop each other in an embrace.  
  
Midorima’s crying; Kise can hear him sniff and feel the snot and tears running down his face, pressing into his bare shoulder along with the sharp corners of Midorima’s glasses, and it’s contagious. Kise starts bawling, sobbing at the top of his lungs, burying his face in Midorima’s jersey (decreasing its retail value as an auction item, or maybe increasing it—genuine Kise Ryouta snot dried on the shoulder! 100% authentic!, though Kise’s pretty sure the officials will have to pry this uniform from Midorima’s cold, dead, retaped hands before Midorima ever gives it up) and shouting incoherently (and maybe that’s for the better), that he loves Midorima, that everything is perfect, that they’ve won the fucking Olympics in Tokyo, the two of them, together.   
  
Kise’s no sentimental dreamer. He didn’t grow up picturing himself on this particular stage, though he knew he’d be on one some way or another. Even when he’d started basketball, he’d never pictured this; even when he’d fallen in love with Midorima it had always been the pipe dream of maybe, together, lifting the trophy on an NBA court somewhere in North America instead of remaining on opposite sides. Even at the start of the tournament, all of their bravado and home-court advantage, it hadn’t been a sure thing.  
  
It can’t be much surer than this, and Kise wants to kiss Midorima right now.  
  
“I know,” Midorima says, voice cracking with tears, eyes red and puffy behind his lenses. “Me, too.”  
  
Kise smushes him into another hug; they can stay this way through the medal ceremony and he won’t give a damn.

* * *

9\. memories

If Kise has one regret, it’s something he can’t really control, something he’d have no way of taking back or redoing, something he couldn’t have fought harder and didn’t know how to avoid at the time. It’s a memory he should have with Midorima, and even though it stands paltry next to the pile they’ve amassed together over the years, still matters.  
  
“Remember our first year of high school?” Kise asks, leaning over the back of the couch.  
  
Midorima is reading an article in a shogi magazine, something Kise hadn’t believed existed and had subscribed him to as a joke birthday gift several years ago. It is, of course, very serious, and Midorima loves it (and God, Kise loves him for all of his quirks).   
  
Midorima glances up, light catching the frame of his glasses where it disappears into his hair, growing longer over his ears again. “What about it?”  
  
His expression is hard to read; he could be thinking about that awkward dinner they’d shared with Kuroko and Kagami, that meeting on the steps with all of their classmates, the almost-date that Kise still isn’t sure counts that they’d gone on just as spring and second year started to seem close around the corner.   
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“What are you apologizing for?”  
  
“The WInter Cup. I couldn’t face you in the third-place game."  
  
“You were injured.”  
  
Midorima’s voice hardens a bit; he looks down, as if staring straight through the back of the couch at the scar still there on Kise’s ankle, faded but clear, especially now that they’re in winter.   
  
“Still, I could have fought harder to get in the game. I could have not. In the first place.”  
  
“How? Going back in time and suspending Haizaki preemptively?” says Midorima. “That’s how things were meant to be.”  
  
(He is always so confident, so sure of destiny and the course of events; Kise wonders where he gets it, because even when he doesn’t seem as if he should, even when he scarcely believes in himself—though those times are rare—he sets enormous store by the movements of the world as predetermined by the course of the stars.)   
  
“Anyway,” says Midorima. “If you could try a little harder then, you’d have beaten Seirin, wouldn’t you?”  
  
He’s got a pretty good point. Kise sighs. “I guess…I don’t know. I would have liked to have that, then, rather than informal things, nothing between Teikou and second year. A way to measure progress.”  
  
“So you knew exactly when you started being able to beat me?” Midorima says.  
  
“Well,” says Kise. “I don’t know. I’m just trying to be romantic here, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” says Midorima.  
  
He turns his face, cups Kise’s chin in his hand, and kisses Kise’s mouth. Damn. When did Midorima become the charming one? (As unfair as it is, Kise might as well enjoy it.)


	64. kisehimu gore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here]()
> 
> 3/9 (+3/9 2 chapters ago)

1\. why I was so hungry only hands could satisfy my hunger

Himuro has beautiful hands. They sit at the end of his wrists, lovely ornaments, slim fingers and soft palms, too soft for the basketball he plays, the fights he gets into. His knuckles are smooth, unscarred; his nails are clipped back to his fingertips, well-kept. They are as lovely as the rest of him, physically, perhaps lovelier. And Kise needs them for his own.  
  
“You have pretty hands, Himuro-san,” he says.  
  
“Thank you,” says Himuro, a pleasant smile on his face, looking innocent of what’s to come (and perhaps it’s better that way, if he really doesn’t know, though Kise’s got a good sense of when he’s lying; he always betrays himself with the little cracks in his facade that aren’t hard to find if you know where to look).  
  
“Can I?” Kise says.  
  
He doesn’t complete the question, but he’s holding Himuro’s hands, pulling them toward himself already, and Himuro acquiesces without knowing the rest of the question. It’s a stupid loss, but it’s a little too late for him to learn now.  
  
The bloody stumps are not so beautiful; Himuro stares at the ends of his wrists but does not scream, the tourniquet made out of tied-together condoms keeping him from hemorrhaging. Blood still spurts out, and Kise supposes he should staunch the bleeding. It’s still a feast for his eyes, the blood drying, the ragged skin, the hands still in Kise’s hand.   
  
“They’re so beautiful, Himuro-san,” he says. “I just have to eat them.”  
  
Himuro’s trying his best to keep his eye from widening; it’s useless (there’s no way he’s having Kise think this hasn’t gotten to him already; they’re his hands; he’s not so functional now—he’ll never play basketball again, for starters).   
  
“Good effort,” says Kise. “In not fainting.”  
  
That almost, almost breaks him. He is far too proud, but it’s always more enjoyable when it’s hard.   
  
He fries the hands in tempura batter on the stovetop in front of Himuro, licks his lips. He offers Himuro a finger, and Himuro shakes his head.  
  
“Only if it’s the middle one.”  
  
He’s bluffing, probably—but Kise won’t call him on it. He’s not going to take the off-chance that Himuro would eat himself just to spite Kise, just to let him have an incomplete set. All of it, all of this juicy flesh and bone, belongs to Kise, and he intends to savor it. He’ll let Himuro taste himself on his lips when he’s done, if he’s good.

* * *

2\. I liked you a lot so I cut off your head and keep it in the attic

Tatsuya had liked Ryouta a lot. An awful lot, in fact, more than most of Taiga’s other high school friends. Those guys he’d let go; Ryouta he’d let stay. He was sweet, when he wanted to be, sour and mean, too; he could hide it a hell of a lot better than Tatsuya could (though Tatsuya’s flavor is more sharp and bitter, harder to mellow out, he supposes) and Tatsuya had respected that. And Ryouta had been fun, vivacious, beautiful; he’d agreed to do dumb shit with Tatsuya like doing ninety down the freeway with the doors unlocked and their seatbelts off at three in the morning when they were both kind of high and giggly, or willing to give Tatsuya a hand job at the movies, in the bathroom of a fancy restaurant.  
  
The problem was keeping Ryouta with him. Tatsuya could tell Ryouta was starting to grow bored with the things that continually kept Tatsuya amused, occupying himself other places with other people. Tatsuya hates letting go, but he does it anyway, twists the knife in his own heart—but why should he do it this time, too? When everyone loves Ryouta for being something he isn’t or barely is, why shouldn’t Tatsuya be the one to keep him forever?   
  
How to do it is the catch, the slight flaw. He couldn’t chain Ryouta like a dog to a post in his basement; it would deprive Ryouta of his glow, the things that make him the way he is (and he’d find some way to escape; that’s too risky). He can’t just sedate him; that’s the same set of issues. He’s going to have to kill Ryouta, it seems, and, well, Tatsuya just wishes there was an alternative that was more of a compromise.  
  
He slashes Ryouta’s throat with a razor and carefully detaches the head, lets the blood run down the bathtub drain as he saws away the skin and bone. It takes time, but he has Ryouta’s head, finally.  
  
“You can stay with me now,” he says.  
  
Ryouta’s eyes stare back, vacant. Tatsuya kisses him on the nose.   
  
His head will soon begin to rot, the flesh eaten by flies, the hair falling out with nothing to hold it, the brain drying up in the skull. Soon there will be little left but bone and teeth, little resemblance to the photographs of Ryouta Tatsuya’s carefully backed up on his hard drive. But that’s okay if they’re together.

* * *

3\. I bet you'd taste delicious on a Saturday morning

Every Friday night they dance with the devils in each other; every Friday night they bring another body part out of someone’s freezer, play the guessing game of whose it was, a random mutilated stranger, another person gone missing in the few years they’ve known each other. Tonight’s dinner had been a delicious rump roast of one Okamura Kenichi, whose muscled body tastes much better than Kise would imagine a gorilla tasting.  
  
They do have bananas foster for dessert, the sweetness washing down the rich and tender meat; they drink coffee with milk after that and their rings clack against the porcelain cups.   
  
“I bet you’d taste delicious on a Saturday morning,” says Kise.  
  
“I’m sure you’d like to know how much,” says Himuro, matching his tone, as if Kise’s not the only mimic (but then, Himuro’s had practice, or maybe Kise had taken that tone from him to begin with, so very long ago).   
  
“You can still help me with only one hand,” says Kise. “We can get you a prosthetic leg; you’re fit enough to learn to walk on it well. Take a little bit at a time.”  
  
“As flattering as that is, I’ll have to decline,” says Himuro. “I think we both know you’d taste better. And there's more of you to share.”  
  
Kise only has a few inches on Himuro, not enough to intimidate him with size the way he’d sometimes like to, back him into a corner and bruise him like the fresh piece of fruit he is, but let him heal before killing (bruised fruit is sweeter; bruised meat is disgusting and Kise is far above that, thank you very much).   
  
“Besides,” says Himuro. “How’s your impulse control? I wouldn’t want you to take too much and kill me; you’d be all alone.”  
  
“You’re a hypocrite, Mr. Bruised-Knuckles-Fight,” says Kise. “And I doubt you’re so concerned.”  
  
“You wound me,” says Himuro. “I am quite concerned for you.”  
  
He bares his teeth, straight and white, stained with no blood. Kise simply watches him, raising his coffee cup to his lips again and then placing it back in the saucer. Himuro plays with the cuff on his sweater, pretending not to look at Kise.  
  
Tomorrow is too soon to start on him, perhaps; Kise would rather spend a lazy morning in bed, imagining his teeth stuck in Himuro’s flesh while Himuro jerks him off slowly (perhaps the hands should be last to go, they are so good for that).


End file.
